Long Way Down
by Emily McDonald
Summary: “You know, Jess?” She called when he was almost inside. “Yeah?” “I think she loves you too.” AU JxL.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: **_Bridge to Terabithia _is the property of the Paterson family, Disney, Walden Media, HarperCollins books, and whomever else it may concern. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Long Way Down**

**Prologue**

Outside the open window, a cold, black night waited, void of moon and stars, silent as lips closed by death. The only thing alive was the wind, a faint, moaning breeze that froze skin and bones as it met the exposed flesh of his arms and soaked through the thin cotton of his T-shirt.

The bedroom was as dark as the evening, breeze tugging softly at the worn curtains and blowing the blanket wall behind him like a dancer's skirt. The dirty screen lay discarded on the floor somewhere by his bed, leaving the normally blockaded window open.

_You can do better than this, Jess. I know it._

The words sounded ancient in his memory, though in reality it had only been a matter of weeks since he had seen and heard them flow through the lips of the very source. How _different _he was now. It was almost terrifying how much he had changed in such a short while. In spite of himself, he wondered what the speaker would think of the new him, should he ever return home. Would she like him like this? Would she finally see past his age—which was not that far from his own, really—and see _him_, as he had often found himself dreaming she would?

Or would she simply stare at him, black-lined blue eyes wide, unable to comprehend or understand the person in front of her? The wider shoulders, the tattered clothes, the shaggy hair, the calloused hands and the voice an octave deeper. What would she think, he wondered, of the scar on his neck; the delicate skin sliced clean open by a blade that belonged to someone he had once considered an ally, a trusted friend. Or, more interestingly, he contemplated what she would make of the red mark that covered it, to him a symbol of balance and hope, a marking that was the result of pleasure, not pain. A temporary tattoo of love and lust, not hatred and betrayal.

He touched it yet again, both factors contributing to the tenderness, the redness and dryness and unevenness of the surface. It felt like a ghost to him, like the last tie to a childhood memory or the scent of fresh baked cookies fading from the kitchen after they have all been eaten, the only reminder that the gooey, warm deliciousness had actually existed. The red mark was not even a week old, but already the breath that had breathed on that area seemed to shift from hot to cold; her feelings much different that his own.

So, no, he at last decided, the woman with the raven hair and sky blue eyes would not know the one that would go back to visit her. And he was glad. He didn't want to be that boy anymore—the child, so cut off from his own heart that his mind had to compensate for it. He wanted to _live_. And living he was—no longer did he have to dream of blue eyes and dark hair, to wait for sleep to conjure up something that could never really exist. All he had to do now was think; think about what had happened over the past few days, weeks, months. He thought now only of blonde hair and eyes green like the incoming tide, ones that could switch from elated to sorrowful in a matter of brief seconds. The way she made anyone and everyone feel comfortable, the stories she could tell, the way she laughed easily, lightly, like it took no effort at all to find the goodness and humor in things. The way she looked at him, sometimes, when it was just the two of them…

Somewhere down below him glass shattered against concrete and slurred swears broke loose, too mangled by drunkenness to make sense. Behind the blanket wall May Belle stirred, moaning slightly in her sleep before licking her lips noisily, sighing, and lapsing back into silence.

What was he _thinking_?! He couldn't leave May Belle alone here; she was just a little girl!

_Not so little anymore_, One side of his brain coaxed. _She's eleven years old, Jess. She was the one that hid in your truck in the first place, remember? She wanted to get away like you. She was the one who demanded you keep her with you, the one with the spunk, the fire, the bravery. She was the one who spotted Fulcher on the street corner in Roanoke, the one who talked to him; the one who got you dragged into this rat-hole and begged you to stay. If you had it your way, she'd be back home and you'd be living alone in some dingy apartment in DC by yourself, drawing on the streets for a living like you wanted to, and everything would be alright._

Liking the logic this half of his brain was presenting, he urged it to continue, groveling for something, anything.

_Okay, so Fulcher and Hoager and probably Madison and Carla are drinking. So what? They've done it before. Besides, they'd never hurt May, and she knows better than to make them angry…_

But the littlest of things—things eleven year old girls didn't even understand or know about—made the four of them angry, even when they were completely sober. The scar on his neck was proof of that. He just couldn't abandon her here, in this house of horrors. He owed her that much, didn't he?

_She won't be alone_, The voice in his head began again. _She has Alexandra; and Janice too. You _know_ Janice would kill anyone who tried to touch her._

Janice was an ally he hadn't expected, that much was true. The burly eighteen year old could be positively frightening at first, but every once in a while she showed a genuine goodness and loyalty. Despite the devilish façade, Janice was just as broken and wounded as any of them.

Broken and wounded, yes, but also perceptive. That was another surprising trait of hers—she could often sense things about people before the person was even aware they felt something. He was no exception to her alert eyes, either. He recalled with startling clarity an event that had occurred not yet two weeks ago, on a frosty, moonless evening not unlike the current one. Janice perched calmly on a rusty trashcan in the alleyway behind the warehouse, cigarette in hand. He had only be taking out the garbage, unaware she was even there until she spoke.

"_You love her, don't you? I've seen the way you look at her."_

He had nearly had a heart attack, jumping a half a foot into the air and spilling trash all over the sidewalk and his shoes.

"_Love who, Janice?" _He asked, still breathless from the fright.

"_Who do you think, moron?" _She retorted. _"It's not hard."_

"_Janice, it's freezing out here," _He had replied, the tone slightly whiney, reminding him of May Belle. All the while he studied the girl in front of him, her plump and pimply face illuminated faintly by the red glow emanating from the quickly dying cigarette, but otherwise shrouded in darkness. Dressed only in ripped jeans, sneakers, and a black T-shirt that had seen better days, he wondered how she was not freezing. Maybe the fat from the pork rinds did her some good after all. _"I really don't feel like playing games right now." _

"_It's an easy game to play Aarons," _Janice had told him, her tone almost annoyingly blasé. _"All you gotta do is think."_

"_You just called me a moron, remember?" _He had smirked in the darkness, trying to lighten the mood. When she didn't respond after a few moments, he had turned away and began walking back towards the warehouse.

"_You know, Jess?" _She called when he was almost inside.

"_Yeah?"_

"_I think she loves you too."_

He had spent countless evenings mulling over Janice's words, trying to determine who the girl was. Now it was painfully obvious, and his heart ached as he recalled his blindness. With sudden determination he gripped the window pane, easing himself over the side and landing on the rusty fire escape below him. Janice would know where he had gone.

He climbed down the stairs two at a time, adrenaline coursing through his veins. He glared out at the inky evening before him, determined.

"Hang on, Leslie." He told the empty night sky. "I'm coming to get you."


	2. Lonely Nights

**Disclaimer: **The original _Bridge to Terabithia _characters do not belong to me. I'm just taking them and twisting their story.

**

* * *

Long Way Down**

**Chapter One:**

**Lonely Night  


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**

The night was quiet, the house still. Late May air poured in through the open windows, the silver light of the full moon illuminating the bare rooms of the lower floor. Somewhere in the distance, a dog howled, his bay low and lonely, as if he was giving up on what he had been howling for.

Up the short flight of stairs and a right down the hallway lead to a small bedroom, the peeling brown door wide open. In one corner a nightlight was lit, the warm glow of the bulb lighting up a small corner of the purple wall. Sleeping closest to the bulb was a young girl, maybe four or five years of age, wrapped up in a pink and lavender quilt that had obviously seen many owners and better days. She slept deeply, oblivious, a small smile on her face and her reddish brown ringlets spread out on the faded pillowcase. Next to her, in a bed just as long and narrow laid an eleven year old girl, with stark straight brown hair and a troubled grimace gracing her lips as she dozed. Even in her state of half-sleep she listened, waiting for something out of the ordinary to rouse her from her rest. On the teetering edge of consciousness she was aware of the dull pulsating of blood in her temples, no doubt a result of her genuine exhaustion. Letting out a pitiful, sleepy sigh in resignation she at last allowed her mind to rest fully, sending out a silent prayer that when dawn broke over the horizon the entirety of her family would be sleeping soundly in their beds. Before she slipped into a complete slumber she thought she saw an unfamiliar shadow pass in front of her eyes and then quickly fade away. She thought for a moment that she really should open her eyes and look, but she was so very tired, for by now it must be the early hours of the morning, at least. Her imagination would be playing tricks on her. Still, she fought the fatigue and forced her eyelashes to part from the skin of her face. She called out feebly, her voice husky with sleepiness.

"Jess?"

She thought she was the shadow move again, somewhere near the door. But before she had time to process what was happening, the shadow became her beloved older brother, hovering protectively over her bed, his hair, eyes and clothes nearly invisible in the blackness of the night.

"Shh, May." He whispered. "You'll wake Joycie. Go back to bed, okay?"

She defied the order, wiggling around under the covers to try and free herself from the sheets imprisoning her legs. Giving up, she stuck her arms behind her back and tried to push herself upright. That also failed, she tumbled backwards against the pillows with a frustrated sigh. "Why don't _you_ go back to bed?" She countered. "Why are you awake, anyway?" She meant to sound angry, bossy, determined, like she knew with absolute certainty what he was doing up at this Godforsaken hour but wanted a confession, like their mother did when one of them failed a quiz and the teacher had already called, but she spent half of dinner hedging around it to make them suffer. Instead, she sounded whiney and exhausted, exhibiting no strength whatsoever.

Despite this, however, she could've sworn she saw him start; pause for a fraction of a second too long before answering her, like he had been caught in some devious act by someone who didn't even have the power to punish him for it.

"Uh…homework…"

"It's Friday, Jess. You don't get homework on Friday."

"Maybe _you _don't. But high school's different from grade school, okay? I have homework. Lots of it. And a test. Tomorrow," He was babbling now, trying to cover messy trails and tracks. Even in her state of delirious lassitude, she sensed his fear.

"Tomorrow's Saturday, dummy. How can you have a test on a Saturday? And the homework thing isn't true either, unless you lied to Momma last week when you told her you _never _have homework on Fridays, so you could go for a run before dinner, and stay after church instead of writing a paper that's due on Tuesday, and…"

"_May Belle_!" His voice was sharp and irritated, rising two or three octaves. She gave a little jump in response to his sudden change of mood. In the bed beside hers, Joyce Ann stirred in her sleep, moaning softly before tugging the quilt over her head and becoming an indiscernible lump in a mound of plush.

Jess sighed, visibly stressed. May Belle thought she saw him press the bridge to his nose between this thumb and forefinger, like he always did when he was upset. He knelt down on the floor beside her head, instantly morphing from an almost six foot tall dark blob to the brother she had always known and loved, at her eye level so that she could make out the shadowy features of his face.

"Look, everything's fine, okay? Just _please _go back to sleep. _Please_, May Belle. I'm begging you."

Her heart panged at the desperation in his voice. He had taken that tone a lot lately, she realized, especially when talking to either of their parents. He begged them in almost the exact same words he had just used on her, pleading for them to know that he was fine, despite what they all believed, despite the obvious signs. He begged to be left alone, to rough it with his own devices as tools. Very strange behavior, May Belle thought, for a boy who had, not six months before, acted out in every which way to get attention from both their mother and father—but especially their father. Fights in school, excessive cursing at home, laziness, rudeness, and monumental drops in grades…the list went on, and it frightened her. The one who had fought with her beloved Daddy—and the Daddy who fought just as hard, if not harder—was _not _the Jesse she had grown up idolizing, and _still _idolized, from time to time. It broke her heart, watching her family be torn up like this, but at least Jess had still been a fighter, a protector, firm in what he believed in and willing to kill or die for it when there was screaming every night after—and sometimes even during—dinner, over grades or work and (very shockingly to all his sisters as well as his mother) occasionally even girls and cigarettes. Though it wasn't where she wanted her family to be, with her and Joyce hiding in their room every night, waiting for the blow, or their mother crying the bathroom and Daddy and Jess hating each other while Brenda and Ellie did whatever they pleased whenever they pleased because nobody seemed to care about the numerous bad things _they _did anymore, at least Jess's spirit, the essence of his will and mind and determination, was still there.

And now, everything was vacant in their home, emotionally. Sure, they were packed as close as sardines _physically_—and really, how could you not be, with five children living in a three bedroom house, with two girls in their twenties and a sixteen year old boy, plus two other rapidly growing daughters—but their hearts were more cut off from each other than they had ever been. Sure they were fighting, but they were _alive_. They were feeling, breathing, passionate, surging with emotion and the desperate desire to make the others understand what it was they wanted and needed.

But they had given up, all of them, May Belle knew for certain now. Their emotion and life had been extinguished, like the fuse of a firecracker cut with scissors just before it exploded. They were groveling now—asking not to communicate out of a desire for familial love and support, but silently pleading with one another, gripping onto the last fragments of plain human decency, asking not for safety and respect because they loved one another, but simply because they were another human being who had done nothing to deserve the pain they were receiving.

She saw it now in her brother's face, the evidence there in his physical features as well as his eyes. His normally olive skin was now almost alarmingly pale, and purple shadows graced the sagging skin beneath the bloodshot hazel eyes. His hair—only a few shades darker than her own chocolate and caramel locks—which was usually cropped a few strands shy of a buzz and always neatly combed, now blew and tangled every which way, coming down across his forehead and roughly met the bridge of his nose when wet. His eyes were tired almost constantly, he would often stare out an open window for fifteen minutes at a time and talk about how wonderful the world outside must be. He had given up too, she knew, though not completely. It was _this _life he was tired of—not life in general. Unlike the rest of their family, Jess knew that it was the way he was living _now_ that was the problem, not him. He hungered to get away, she knew, to slip away in the dead of night and begin his life over again, starting with no strings attached, so that he might see the world he seemed to daydream about all the time. Her heart ached for him; how could no one else see the lust for freedom in his eyes? He was like an old dog in a cage, whining and pawing for somebody to let him out.

But nobody ever did.

Right now she was broken in ten thousand different ways. Nothing was as it should be. Her family was falling apart at the seams, and now it seemed she was going to lose the most important piece: Jess. She couldn't lose Jess. She _needed_ him. He was the only thing constant in her life, now that she was border lining on being too old to be "Daddy's Little Girl". He was her best friend, other than Billy Jean, whom she had known since Kindergarten. But lately Billy Jean was more interested in training bras and lip gloss and laughing when a boy talked, even when they hadn't said anything funny, or anything at _all_. So he was really all she had right now, until Billy Jean came back down to Earth. Not only a friend, he was one of her best teachers: He taught her how to cook grilled cheese sandwiches and sneak cookies before dinner. He showed her how to use a Swiss Army Knife to take out a splinter and showed her which plants in the woods would give her a rash that would make Momma ban them from going in for at least half a year. He had even let her drive Daddy's old work truck once, when no one else was home, but after she took out several of the neighbor's various shrubs and garden gnomes he said driving would have to wait until she was taller and had better hand-eye coordination. He was good at some school subjects too, like math, history and art—especially art. He was _very _good at that. His talent mystified her; she could spend an hour staring at a blank sketchpad, trying to figure out how to draw a pony's head and the image would never take shape. And then he'd waltz in and do it without even looking at the paper. A flick of his wrist, a few simple lines and circles, and suddenly: there was the pony head. She loved it when he would draw for her, because he didn't do it often. Daddy was the reason, she knew.

Daddy never liked it when he caught Jess drawing, or stumbled upon a sketch or two in their room. He said it made him a sissy, that he should be out fixing the tractor or going with him to the hardware store on Saturdays to "learn the family business". After that, it was always the same: Jess would say something, then Daddy would say something, and then Jess would start yelling some bad words and Momma—if she hadn't already started dusting a dust free object in another room, that is—would put her head in her hands. Then Daddy would slam the screen door and go out to the greenhouse for an hour or two. Jess, in turn, would storm up the stairs to their bedroom and shove all of his art supplies and sketchbooks into a shoebox. He would sometimes say he had half a mind to toss the box into the creek that ran behind their house, but he never did. Usually he just shoved the box under his bed and swore off art for good. That never lasted either—a week or two would pass and he would be back at it again.

May Belle wondered if the boys at Jess's high school thought he was a sissy because he did art, just like Daddy. He never brought any friends home from school like the rest of them did, and she thought it was a bit…strange. A few years before she had voiced her concerns to Momma, who had merely smiled at her weakly and told her that Jess would "come around".

"He's a late bloomer, honey." She had said, though May Belle really had no idea what that expression meant, at the time. "Jess will…grow out of it."

She was beginning to question that theory, and she knew that Jess was too.

She could feel it in her gut that tonight would be the night that her beloved brother would try to break free. No, actually, he wouldn't merely _try. _He would either do it or let Daddy kill him while he tried to get away. All week she had listened for him breaking out, but nothing had ever happened. Just as she was about to count her blessings and assume all was—somewhat—well for the time being, there he was. Fully dressed, in the middle of the night, wide awake. That had to be what the homework hooey was about—she had caught him trying to sneak downstairs so he could make a break for it.

Anger flared inside of her. How _dare _he leave her alone like this! He just _couldn't_—she wouldn't let him. Just as she opened her mouth to speak, to protest, to tell him she knew what he was doing and beg him to stay, the moon shone a bright beam of silver light behind her curtains and illuminated their corner of the room. The light fell across his face, and for the first time she saw the true depth of his hunger, the famine for freedom. She couldn't take that away.

Sighing in defeat, she snuggled back down under the coverlet. "Okay." She said simply, surprising him.

"What?" He replied, obviously confused.

"I'll go back to sleep."

"Oh," Clearly this had not been the answer he had been expecting, and in a way she was glad. "Alright then…" He rose awkwardly from the floor, staring down at her quizzically for a moment before sliding away from the beam of the moon, back into the shadows.

He cleared his throat a few times before speaking. "Well, uh…goodbye, I guess."

"Don't you mean goodnight?" She whispered, though they both knew the answer. Time for games had run out. She had solved the riddle—now she witnessed the aftermath. He was going—_leaving_—whether she liked it or not.

There was nothing dramatic about his response. It was simple, profound, just like always. He merely smiled softly at her before chuckling without humor. "Think about this, May." He told her, as he often had when they were children and she was always asking endless questions.

"What is it I should think about?" She responded—like she always had—her voice cracking a bit.

"Goodnight and goodbye. What is the difference, really?"

He stayed where he was for a brief moment longer and then shuffled towards his bed, lighting a small flame of hope in May Belle's heart. But he only picked up a backpack and jacket from the floor and walked towards the door again.

"What do you expect me to _tell_ them?" She shrieked, her eyes filling to the brim with tears. "When they wake up tomorrow and you're not here?"

He looked at her briefly over his shoulder. "I don't expect you to tell them anything, May. I couldn't ask that of you. Just…do what you said you would. Go back to sleep, and maybe when you wake up tomorrow morning this will all feel like a dream, a premonition, and you won't be able to differentiate fact from fiction. You'll have nothing legitimate to tell them."

"I'll remember. _I will_. I'd _have _to tell them, Jess. You know that."

He sighed again, brokenly, and her heart stung with guilt for the additional pain she was causing him.

"I know. I know. I'm…_sorry_ May, really I am. I never wanted to put you through this."

"So don't go." She snapped. "Stay. Hold out for the light at the end of the tunnel. _Don't_ put me through this."

"I don't have choice, May Belle. I _can't stay _here with Dad anymore. I just can't stay _here_, period. I have…nothing. No friends. No sports, hobbies, good grades, which equals no escaping to a far away college in two years. No…family…"

"What about running?" She demanded. "What about _art_? You're good, Jess. No, you're better than good. You're fantastic. And the new music teacher who they're using to supervise the free period art classes…you like her, right?"

"I tell you _way _too much."

"And family…what about me?" Her voice broke once again, a few tears spilled over. "I don't want to stay here either, Jess! Not without you. Daddy and Momma fight all the time now…don't you notice? I can't be here to make Joyce Ann feel better all by myself. I don't know how!"

"I know all that, May…" He sighed again. "But it's _me_ Dad has the problem with. Once I'm gone for a while, everything will go back to normal."

"You know that's not true."

"Well then, Miss Smarty Pants, what do you suggest I _do_ about the damned situation?!"

She was stuck. He had her pinned in a corner. She had no way of talking him out of it, the only solution she could think of was…

"Take me with you,"

The lone dog in the distance gave one final call to the moon.

**

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Author's Notes: **Well, there's the first official chapter! I hope you all enjoyed it. I'm very open to feedback—this is my first time starting a story _In Media Res_, so I want to make sure things are flowing right. Also, I know this varies a bit from the prologue, but that may change. If it doesn't, I'll go back and edit. Last but not least, I hope the premise is (somewhat) clear: This is an AU where Jess hasn't met Leslie yet. This chapter is my take on how Jess and his family may have evolved without Leslie present in Jess's life. Fear not, though, we may meet Miss Burke in time. :) Please drop a review!


	3. A World Within the World

**Disclaimer: **The original _Bridge to Terabithia _characters are the property of Katherine Paterson and whomever else it may concern. No copyright infringement is intended.

**

* * *

Long Way Down**

**Chapter Two:**

**A World Within the World

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**

"Gary! _Gary_! Wake _up_, moron!" The stick-figured teenager brought his hand down firmly against his sleeping comrade's shoulder, not the least bit worried about letting his annoyance affect the strength of his slap. With a hollow, painful sounding _thwack_ he brought his hand once more against the dozing redhead's clavicle, this time succeeding in rousing his roommate from his slumber.

"Wha…?" Gary snorted through his nose as he jolted awake, blinking rapidly as his flame red hair fell into his eyes. The half-drunk bottle of beer nestled between his knees tumbled to the concrete floor, dark amber colored glass shattering and turning the pale yellow, putrid smelling liquid into a murky stain on the gray slab of cement. "What'd you do that for, Scott?" Gary whined sleepily. "You just wasted a perfectly good half bottle of beer! I was gonna finish that, you know!"

Scott snorted, unimpressed. "Sure you were, idiot. Right after you finished your lovely little siesta. What is the _matter _with you? We've got a job to do, and you almost ruined it. Beer, gas and food ain't free, ya know."

Slowly regaining consciousness, Gary was beginning to morph back into the sneaky, sarcastic loudmouth he was. Smirking deviously up at his friend from where he was sitting—a simple fold-up chair pressed against a crumbling concrete dividing wall—his charcoal colored eyes gleamed mischievously in the darkness. "Yeah, I know they ain't free, Hoager. That's why we make our little midnight _runs to the store_, right? 'Cause we _all _know they ain't cheap?" He grinned, and the light of the moon coming from a far off window caught the slime on his front teeth, which gleamed yellow.

His dark-haired friend chuckled in response. "Got that right, Fulcher. Now come on. Avery finds out we haven't left yet and she'll go on her own. We can't afford another incident like last time."

"Got that right," Fulcher agreed, shaking his head at the memory. "Last thing we need is a couple cop cars surrounding this place, especially since Madison…er, _got _that new stereo last weekend."

Madison Leonard was one of the seven "lost" teenagers that all lived together in the long-abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of Roanoke, Virginia. Scott, Gary and Madison had all arrived at the warehouse at around the same time; Gary and Scott, two childhood friends from Kentucky, had hitchhiked over to Virginia in December two years before and had stumbled across Janice Avery—a rather terrifying girl, who at the time was only sixteen years old—at a bus stop in Arlington. She had been clad in standard clothing one would believe to belong to a teenage female living in a middle class suburban area: Jeans, a dark blue T-shirt advertising some Canadian rock group neither boy had ever heard of, black platform sandals and a worn denim jacket drooping off of her shoulders. The cold of the evening seemed to do nothing to her. On her right arm was a bag crafted of real black leather, designer labeling glinting in the lamp lights surrounding them as the zippers waggled back and forth, swaying with the movement of her body. One thing Scott knew for sure: that bag had not always been hers, and he wondered if it had ever really been hers at all. Her hair—long, strawberry blonde, and frizzy—blew out behind her in the nighttime air before she settled herself on the end of the covered bench, right next to Scott. She was large in form; tall, broad, and obviously took pride in her physical health, as far as muscles were concerned. Her belly, however, was a little more than "pudgy"; her babyish face littered with pimples. She had, even then, the air of a leader—perhaps the more appropriate adjective would be _dictator_—despite the fact that she didn't really have anything to lead. Her air of self-confidence was comforting to the then fourteen year old Hoager, who knew nothing other than anger, and had yet to grow out of it with age. Fulcher was his own pot of stew, but in his own way exactly the same—unlike Scott, he really had no backbone or manipulative tactics of his own, but he knew how to look scary, flex his biceps, and follow orders, which made him the perfect Yin to his scrawny, but malicious, friend's Yang. Both boys had been orphans, essentially; parents or grandparents there, in the physical sense, but never really _there _at all. So when Scott got angry and decided to leave the dingy, dark alleys of Lexington's inner city behind him, Gary felt that he really had no choice but to follow. Whether it was out of loyalty or fear for his own self-preservation, neither had ever really cared enough to ponder. What was done was done. The nights after Janice found them at the bus station seemed like a whole other world, chapters that blurred together so much they honestly couldn't even be discerned anymore. He never recalled what gave him the nerve to talk to the girl sitting beside him with the black leather purse and platform shoes, or what she said to make the two of them spill the whole story; who they were, where they hoped to go and why. A little over twenty-four months after that night he still couldn't understand why she was able to be in nothing but jeans, a T-shirt, and a thin little jacket in the middle of a Virginia December, the particular emotion in her blue gray eyes unreadable as she reached calmly into her jacket pocket and fished out a crumpled red and white packet of Marlboros, extracting the final cigarette before tossing the empty package onto the asphalt below their feet. She held it between her lips for a while without lighting it, staring out into the darkness with a look of concentration on her face. She reached into the bag to extract a lighter—cheap plastic, neon purple in color—and then doused the end of the cigarette in flame, sparks pouring out into the bitter cold air and stinging the cheeks of the two boys as they blew back under the awning of the bench. She took a long breath of the smoke before telling them her name, and that she had a place for them to go.

* * *

It all began there, really. The two had willingly followed her to the Taco Bell across the street, where she stood in the light of the sign and made a call on the payphone to her friend; a girl they met not too much later who was dark haired, lean, with green eyes. She emerged from the shadows of the Taco Bell about thirty minutes later, no sign of transportation in sight. She introduced herself as Carla—no last name was given, as it had been with Janice, whose surname was Avery, and something told both of the boys that Carla was not one you could ask questions she hadn't already addressed herself—and informed them that she and Janice were in a predicament not unlike their own; the two girls were also best friends who came from unloving families. Perhaps, Carla said, the two of them—Scott and Gary—would like to stay with her and Jan for a little while? They had recently found a place a few towns over that had plenty of room. If they'd like, they could stay there until the cold lessened. She and Jan could always use help with the…_errands_.

The place Carla spoke of turned out to be a warehouse on the edges of Roanoke's city limits, two stories with plenty of windows that had been abandoned for a good decade or two. The lower floor was massive, bare of any kind of any industrial machinery and rather cold. Janice showed them to the small bathroom at the back of the building—the kind with a coed sign on the heavy door that housed only a toilet, sink, cracked mirror and one light hanging from the ceiling—before once again crossing the splintered concrete floor to the other side. A few articles of furniture littered the big room: An old couch, a few folding chairs, some lamps, a cheap looking CD player, a rickety card table piled high with tabloids and a bag of gummy worms.

"It's not much, yet," Janice said as she kept on walking across the expanse. "But we're hoping to, uh, _find _some more stuff soon." The way she smiled made them curious.

In the end she led them up the stairs to the second floor—a strange, narrow place comprised of small "rooms" made up by concrete dividing walls. The entire back wall was made up almost entirely of windows, but the girls had tacked up on sheets onto the walls to use as curtains during the nighttime. Most of the mini rooms were empty, but two had lanterns, sleeping bags and other bedding on the floor, a few posters tacked on the wall. In front of these, long pieces of cardboard laid against the walls.

"Where Carla and I sleep," She explained when she saw their odd looks. "We use the cardboard as doors."

She led them to the last two cubicles in the row, shrugging her shoulders as they arrived. "You guys can sleep here if you want. I don't have any more bedding, though, except for a few sheets and some pillows."

They said thank you; that would be fine. After all, it wasn't as if this would be a permanent situation.

* * *

It turned out that they were wrong. The two of them fell into the lifestyle with ease—Janice taught them the knack of swiping what they needed from locals and shops. Within no time they were hardened to the world more so then they ever thought possible. However, their fears of Carla and Janice never fully dissipated. The four of them never quite became _friends_—the older girls had a true maliciousness that even Scott couldn't match. He wondered if that was how he found Madison Leonard eight months later. He had gone into the heart of Roanoke by himself one late July evening, a rarity. He had never gone into the city without Gary, and sometimes all four of them went. Two to distract, two to steal; a philosophy developed by Carla, and one that worked impeccably. It had been a bit nerve wracking to do on his own, but he had what he needed: Gummy worms, a loaf of white bread, a jar of jelly, a bottle of store-brand Cola, a can of tuna, a pack of cigarettes for himself, a can of chewing tobacco for Gary, and the cheapest bottle of red wine possible for both Janice and Carla, something they'd taken an almost unhealthy liking to over the past few weeks. The wine, tuna, soda, jelly and bread were stuffed into a red and black backpack he had found at a garage sale some months before, artfully secreted by objects most people thought normal for a teenage boy to be carrying: jackets and sports jerseys, notebooks supposedly filled with math problems and science notes.

He hadn't been to school in months.

The other items were veiled indiscriminately: The cigarettes in his shirt pocket, tobacco concealed in his sock, right where his jeans met. As for the gummy worms, they hid in plain sight, swinging back and forth between his fingers. He stood on a corner, back against a lamppost that had yet to flicker to life, watching the sun set over the city's skyline. He yearned for a cigarette, his nostrils twitched with a desire to breathe in the earthy scent of the smoldering ashes. He didn't dare reach into his shirt though, for a reason he could not place. Instead he watched the families flitting across the blacktop, passing from restaurants to pharmacies to video stores and back again. His heart panged with envy as he watched a little boy, maybe seven or eight years old, toss a worn baseball to an older man who Scott assumed to be the boy's father, from the curb in front of a Blockbuster. The man was walking hand-in-hand with a woman who was most likely his wife, about halfway to where the boy stood, cleanly catching every throw the boy probably thought to be tricky tosses, and lightly throwing it back.

The boy missed a throw. The ball bounced haphazardly down the sidewalk, not stopping until it came near the Blockbuster's front doors, gaining power until it smacked the back of someone's head. A girl, from the looks of it, was squatting in front of a Coke machine next to the store. The blow startled her and she tumbled over backwards, the kit bag on her arm flying over her wavy dark head, contents spilling all over the sidewalk and into the street. Hairpins, combs, a travel toothbrush and a cell phone spilled around her, while her wallet and some other items were kicked around by the feet of oblivious passersby. A notebook and pen flew into the center of the blacktop, and with it bounced a bright yellow lighter, which at last skidded to a stop inches from where Scott stood.

"Sorry lady!" The boy called, who was quickly dragged away by his mother. Only the man bothered to shoot the rumpled girl an apologetic smile, which she missed.

Scott bent down to scoop up the lighter in his hands, stroking the familiar smooth plastic like one might pet a downy bunny or a beloved dog. He fiddled with it until a flame came to life for a fraction of a second, then he promptly snapped it shut and walked out into the middle of the road to gather the notebook and pen. His stride became longer and quicker as he approached her, his greeting a loud clearing of his throat. She turned to face him as she gathered her things from the sidewalk, smiling gratefully as she made sense of the items in his hands. No greetings or words of thanks were exchanged—only her smile, which stayed fixed on her face.

He studied her carefully: she was probably his age, maybe a little younger, but definitely not older. Her hair was long and heavy, dark charcoal colored waves that spilled down her shoulders and twisted every which way in the light evening breeze. Her eyes were a charcoal like shade as well, something that surprised him; he had only seen the color once before, on Gary. Her face was angular, lips full, he felt sure that when she spoke her voice would be slightly deeper and more adult sounding than most girls her—their?—age. She should be an early bloomer, something told him. He resisted the urge to look down at her chest; surely he would be in trouble if he did. She wasn't the sort to take that kind of nonsense. As it turned out, that was his one assumption about her that was _completely _wrong.

To keep his focus on her visage he analyzed it more carefully, discovering that her countenance was pale and thin, dark shadows clinging to the sagging skin beneath her eyes, which were murky with confusion, exhaustion, and legitimate physical hunger. Her lips were dry and cracked, her hair tangled. The T-shirt and jeans clinging to her body were dirty, torn, and caked with sweat.

All the items in her bag…the way she had moved around, as if watching for somebody she thought might be watching her…

It hit him like a sack of bricks. She was a runaway, just as he and Gary had been. He was playing Janice to this strange, lost girl, whoever she was. It was then he finally gathered the courage to say hello and ask her name. The confident ice in her tone as she uttered her name told him that she had the strength to survive with the rest of them, to turn the quartet into a party of five.

_Madison Elizabeth Leonard. _Two years later he could still hear the potency in her voice. Smiling softly he told her his as well, extending to her the unopened pack of gummy worms and fishing a cigarette out of his pocket. She took both of them easily, but hesitated when he told her he had somewhere for her to go. To ease her fears he told her about Gary and Janice and Carla, how they all came together and how they lived. In turn she lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply, as they rode the bus as far to the outskirts of Roanoke as it would take them, but left the candy untouched.

"I don't take food from strangers," She explained.

"But you take cigarettes?" He chortled, amused.

"I've learned to do without food over the past couple of weeks," She shrugged. "But cigarettes are a staple."

He laughed heartily at that. It seemed to warm her to him, and he learned more about her as they neared the warehouse: She had lived with her father—a professor of botany—and younger brother Liam in New York City up until that April. Her parents had divorced three years before, and her mother—a grade school teacher—had moved to San Diego, leaving her and Liam in the care of their scatterbrained father without so much as a second thought.

"Liam and I would visit her every summer," Madison informed Scott, and her use of the past tense chilled him for some reason he didn't understand. "She treated us like nothing ever happened when we went down there, though, and we all crammed together in her little apartment by the bay. Liam loved it—but it made me feel sick. We were supposed to visit her early this year, but I didn't want to go. I knew I couldn't break my brother's heart—he's always been closer to our Mom—so I went along with it. But we got to San Diego and…I just _couldn't. _So I put him in a cab to Mom's and got in one of my own before he understood what I was doing. And somehow, here I am."

It seemed as though all their stories were like that, all open ended, a broken sentence along the lines of _somehow, here I am_. He took Madison back with him to the warehouse that day, as he had intended to when he gave her the cigarette and candy on the bus, and the other three welcomed her openly. Carla was the only one who _truly _didn't like her; she thought the younger girl "too soft for our kind of life."

In a way she was right: Madison was by no means an idiot, but she was _book _smart, not street smart. She knew how to get from points A to B based on logic, stories, facts and equations she had read in books. Old volumes that she had swiped from her father's library made up the majority of her possessions and she devoured them over and over again, soon enough developing a moderately haughty attitude at the fact that she was "wiser" that the other four. Carla's distain grew for her over the years, and Janice followed her friend's lead. Madison and Gary had never really bonded, and since the redheaded boy was terrified of their older roommates and had no prior loyalty to the brunette girl, he too took the approach that Janice and Carla had. It was then that the few, delicate strands of Madison and Scott's friendship began to fall around them, and soon it seemed that they all lived their own separate lives, never quite coming together like they used to.

* * *

Since Madison's induction to the group only two more had come. Their youngest member yet had been found by Janice in a park a little under a year before, a shy ten year old girl with coppery hair and a fair, plump face littered with freckles. No one knew much about her, as she generally liked to keep to herself, and was one of the biggest outcasts of all because of it. They knew only the basics: Her name was Alexandra Jeanette Edison, and she had celebrated her eleventh birthday in January of the current year. She had come from Washington, D.C. where she lived with her parents, aunt, uncle, and some twelve or thirteen siblings and cousins. She claimed she had gotten lost while playing with her family members in the park where Janice had found her, and had, terrified, remained exactly where she was until she was found. The others would've liked to believe her, but in addition to the skewed logic of her story, the state of her clothes and overall physical cleanliness made them think otherwise.

As for the second…she was the most ignored and disliked of them all, even over Alexandra and Madison. She had been with the group only six months, and generally liked to be left alone. They knew even less about the quiet girl than they did about Alexandra; she hadn't even supplied them with a last name. She hadn't been found, like everyone else—_she _found _them_. The entire faction had been wary of the flaxen haired teenager, but she proved to be a good worker, and they let her stay. They had no sympathy for her strangeness, however, and often poked fun at her and her eccentric mannerisms while she was painfully in earshot. But she paid them no heed; only shut them out more and more, until she became so invisible to them that they all but forgot she was there. Alexandra was the only person who bothered to so much as greet her in the mornings, but her naturally shy nature also pushed her away from the blonde teenager, who often sat alone on the rusted fire escape beneath one of the second floor windows, fair face tipped upwards towards the sun, eyes shut, hair blowing out softly behind her, a small smile playing on the edge of her mouth. One time the younger girl had gotten up the courage to ask her what she was doing. Her response was light, airy, tone bright with happiness.

"I'm keeping my mind wide open. You learn so much that way."

* * *

And that was their group, the mismatched mush pot of loners who still, to some degree, desired to be alone. But they all knew that they required one another to stay alive and hidden, and so they gritted their teeth and bared the swirling whirlwind of emotion and confusion that consumed all of them. One lesson they had all learned was that living your life halfway independent was better than no independence at all. With that motive in mind Scott shook his head to draw himself from the momentary reverie, then he helped yank his bleary eyed friend to his feet and tossed him the black leather jacket he had left on the floor.

"Come on, Gary," he said. "We got some things to do before sunrise."

And with that, the two longtime friends ventured out into the night and set their course for the city.

**

* * *

Author's Notes: **This chapter went through many lives before it became what you finished reading. Originally, Scott, Gary and the other kids didn't have nearly as big a role, but as I started writing I became more and more fascinated by them and their origins, and then…I had this. :) Perhaps now that we've met some more familiar characters you'll have an idea of where this is going, or maybe not. I'd love feedback! I also feel compelled to mention that the story is rated _T _for thematic elements—I'm sure you can probably tell now that the demons our heroes will face in Terabithia are slightly different and more adult than we are used to. Nothing to graphic or intense, I assure you, but if you feel it will strike any nerves I suggest proceeding with caution. While Jess, Leslie and May Belle will be the same loveable, morally just and honest people we know them to be, I can't make that promise for other characters, whose spots will change colors many a time over the course of this story. However, I hope this fact doesn't sway you from following the story and providing me with much-appreciated opinions and critique. I definitely want to make sure that I'm not so infatuated with my own little world that I'm neglecting to take the rest of you with me! :) That being said, I hope you enjoyed, and please drop a review!


	4. Almost Forgotten Promises

**Disclaimer: **The world of _Bridge to Terabithia_, as always, belongs to Katherine Paterson, Disney, Walden Media, and any other persons whom it may concern. I'm just playing with the characters for a while.

* * *

**Long Way Down**

**Chapter Three:**

**Almost Forgotten Promises

* * *

**

"Take me with you,"

To her, the request was not impractical—in fact, it seemed to be the only option. He wanted to leave and she had no way of changing his mind. But there certainly was no way she was staying here without him. Why _shouldn't_ she go with him? What were two children gone compared to one; without him around she would probably be more trouble than she was worth, anyway. And besides, it wasn't as if she was an infant. She could help—she could work soon enough. She was tall for her age; she could pass for thirteen, maybe even older. She may not be able to get a job working in some chain store like he could, but she could do odd jobs: dog walking, lawn mowing, and babysitting. She could even do a paper route, that is, if they could sneak her bike out of the garage without waking anybody up…

As May Belle pondered, Jesse fretted. Her waking up and pleading with him had not been part of the plan. As he thought on it he simply couldn't see how he could win: if he took her with him, sooner or later she would want to—or have to—go home, and he very well couldn't send his eleven year old sister all the way from DC to Lark Creek by herself, for a multitude of reasons. And if he took her back himself…well, then where would he be, heading back home? That wasn't wise for his independence, and would probably cause him a great deal of unnecessary emotional pain, especially if he had to leave May behind.

_I thought you had already made the choice to leave her behind._ A small voice in the back of his head nagged. _This shouldn't be painful at all._

And yet it was. Excruciatingly so. May Belle was just about the only true friend he had. He wasn't close to anyone, really, other than her, and—more recently—a new teacher at his high school.

He closed his eyes for half a second, thinking long and hard. The words May Belle had uttered mere moments ago ran a quick course through his mind.

"_And the new music teacher who they're using to supervise the free period art classes…you like her, right?"_

He did like her, very much. So much so, in fact, that part of him wondered if this level of…_affection_ was normal for a boy of his age to feel for his teacher.

_Ms. Edmunds_…

Even the name brought the smallest of smiles to his face. Brief visions of her ran through his mind: her eyes, the clearest of blue, always lined with black eyeliner, but never too much. A smile, a joke that was a little too outdated to be truly funny, but he still laughed, so that she might. The billowy pastel colored tops, the blue jeans littered with scribbles and song lyrics written in Sharpie, and neon colored Crocs. The bangle bracelets that always clattered on her wrists; the long, dark curls that were never tamed by pins, bands or clips. The way she would sit; cross legged upon the old desk at the front of the art room, eyes flitting back and forth over the rows of teenagers seated before their easels. Every few times, her eyes would land on him and she would smile before moving on down the line…

The brunette teacher was a graduate student in her early twenties who had studied music at Julliard before her scholarship ran out, forcing her to return to her hometown of Lark Creek, Virginia. She had quickly become Jess's only companion in school, mainly because she was the only one who even bothered to acknowledge his presence. During his lunch period he would stay inside of the art room rather than trekking all the way to the East stairwell—he figured if he was going to eat alone, he may as well do it away from all the condescending sneers and pitiful glances cast his way by his fellow classmates—partially because art was right before lunch, meaning he had a bit more time with the beloved educator to himself.

Ms. Edmunds had caught on fast that Jesse Aarons was far from a social butterfly, and a few quiet inquiries in the teacher's lounge had sent the other members of the faculty on a rampage regarding the entire collection of Aarons children. Surprisingly, Julia had not learned much about Jess, as she had hoped to; mainly she heard a near endless stream of complaints tied to his elder sisters: Eleanor, who had insisted upon being called Ellie, and Brenda, younger by barely a year. Ms. Matheson, the Biology teacher, recalled her first encounter with the eldest Aarons daughter with a mildly nostalgic and gloomy humor:

"The first words she said to me in class during the first full day of her freshman year were: 'I don't care what your roster says, or what my mother may tell you. My name is _Ellie_, not Eleanor. Eleanor is my Grandmother. She smokes, and my father hates her, though he won't say so. She's grumpy and gross, and last Christmas she made my younger brother cry.'"

Brenda was even worse than Ellie, who was allegedly foul-mouthed, lazy and dimwitted, someone who cared only for boys and lunch break. "Thank God she's old enough for college now," said Mr. Greenburg, the Algebra teacher. With a smirk, he would add: "Though I doubt she got in."

Little was said about Jess, however, because little was known. There was _nothing_, actually, not even the carrying on of the family legacy of misbehaving, and it was something that saddened Julia greatly. Whenever the boy's name was mentioned, every teacher would blink spastically for a moment and stare into space, as if trying to recall if they had left the stove on at home. And when they did at last bring to mind the dark haired teenager who sat in the back row of every class, all they had to say of him was in relation to his average grades—mostly B's and C's—and his affection for quiet surroundings. Talk would then move onto his younger sisters, May Belle and Joyce Ann, who were in the fifth and first grades, respectively. Some teachers dreaded the coming of the younger siblings, though most hoped to be retired, or at least close, by the time the littlest arrived. A few select members of the staff; such as Ms. Carey, the History teacher, and Mr. Gregory, who taught Life Science to the freshmen, did not believe that the younger girls would possess the same unpleasant qualities that their sisters did. Bart Gregory spoke quite highly of May Belle, though he had never "had the pleasure of meeting the young lady in person". He explained to Ms. Edmunds that May Belle was a student of Gussie Meyers down at the elementary school, who had taught all of her older siblings.

_Including Jess_, she had tacked on in her head, a small smile on her face.

Mr. Gregory happened to be good friends with Mrs. Meyers, who apparently did nothing but sing the girl's praises whenever he inquired about her students.

"Gussie says that May Belle is brilliant," Bart informed Julia. "She's got all the smarts and spunk that none of the other kids seem to."

That statement in itself was the kind of material Julia had been looking for. The youngest of three and the only girl, she believed she could understand the sort of trouble Jess was going through. No doubt Ellie and Brenda had always been—and possibly still were—troublemakers, so that got "necessary attention". May Belle was bright and kind-hearted: positive, frequent attention most likely in the form of compliments. Joyce Ann was most likely still the baby of the family, who got the rare hugs and kisses, the special treats. And where did that leave Jess? She thought on this long and hard, and came up with nothing at all. He truly was a good kid; quiet and well mannered, a dutiful student, though academics didn't come easy for him. The only classes where he truly shined were History—the only student in ten years to get anything above a C on the midterm, according to Ms. Carey herself—and art. Ms. Edmunds had witnessed firsthand Jesse's artistic gifts, and they never ceased to amaze her. He yielded a simplistic talent with any form of brush, pencil, charcoal or marker that would have most of the students in the class brooding with envy, should they ever happen to lay eyes upon his portfolio. Jess chose to keep his work under lock and key, however; never did one of his landscapes grace the pale blue walls of the classroom, the parchment on which he painted never encased in a shoddy pine frame amongst the plethora of other creative endeavors belonging to his peers, most of which were quite crude or hasty, quickly becoming something of surfeit rather than things of splendor.

Julia considered herself propitious to have even glimpsed the diffident teenager's work. One afternoon, not long after the end of class, Jess had been gathering up his things to follow the other students to lunch. Inches from the door the bottom of his tattered blue backpack gave way, a lone strand of duct tape dangling pitifully from the worn flap of fabric, which sent a mass of papers and pens cascading to the linoleum floor. Watching with a tender heart the expression of true discouragement on his visage, she had bent to help him, fingers finding the uneven cover of a tan book which bore no title, buried amongst the heaps of crumpled Algebra II worksheets and a Chemistry quiz marked with a bright red _C-_. Curiosity had gotten the better of her as she stared at the mysterious volume, and in spite of herself she had indulged said emotion by opening the object that had silently mocked her with its mystifying lure.

Within the confines of the bland and uninteresting cover she found a breathtaking world of color and expression: Jesse's sketchbook was not limited only to pencil drawings but also contained delightful pastel sketches, charcoal portraits and even a few watercolors. Satisfied with the safety his boring little book would provide him with; he had willingly unleashed a talent beyond any he had ever shown in class. She then realized that he always hid, even when in the company of like minded people his own age, quicker to downplay himself into the world of mediocrity then become known for a gift that was remarkable for _anyone _to attain, much less a seventeen year old boy.

It was then she assumed he must've taken some form of class; after all, even the greatest of talents needed nurturing. And so she inquired, with the lightest of tones so that she would not give air of intrusion, but enough warmth was provided as to convey legitimate interest. The reality that his private place of creative expression had been seen by eyes other than his own was initially very troubling to him, but she soon managed to lower his defenses and gain insight into his mind. She found him to be very interesting, and quite like she had been at his age—not a "people person" but still lonely from time to time, quiet by nature, therefore interpreted as aloof or haughty. She grew to enjoy his company, and began to think of him as more an acquaintance or friend than a student, as lately the word brought to mind an outcropping of generally unpleasant human beings who smelled of cigarette smoke and possessed the vocabulary of a hobo. She did grow to admire the contemplative boy quite a bit, but somewhere along the line her admiration and value of his companionship became muddled in his eyes, which lead to a feeling of deep affection that he had deluded himself into believing she might also return.

So his memories of his after-class discussions with Ms. Edmunds were tainted with remnants of reveries, clouded with confusions and stories he wished would come true. While she saw a bright boy in need of a friend, he saw a possible romantic interest that was deeply repressed. While he was not one of an overly quixotic or flighty sort of mind—in fact, it was quite the opposite—his loneliness got the best of his common sense in the end.

So he thought of leaving her with a sore heart, but knew that a few good things could not compensate for the endless bad ones. After all, it was Ms. Edmunds that had prompted him to run away in the first place. Surely, if she ever learned what became of him, she would be proud of what he had done for himself. Other than his teacher's kindness, May Belle's companionship and innocent insight was one of the two nice things that he would mourn in his departure, and thinking of her again drew him from his momentary daydream and caused his hazel eyes to fixate on her shadowy form as she sat upright in her bed, eyelids slanted in contemplation, moonlight illuminating a tangled nest of hair on the side of her head. She was thinking deeply, he could tell by the set of her mouth; the way her jaw jetted upwards slightly and how her plump lips pursed, turning the corners downward in a comical fashion. Her request thudded in his temples like a bass drum:

"_Take me with you,"_

He couldn't. He just _couldn't_! While part of him desperately wanted to be assured of his sister's company—for he had grown to enjoy her over the years, and he had been pondering if one day he might actually get a bit too lonely, living all by himself—a much stronger part of his brain argued that May Belle would be the downfall of his much needed independence, in the end. He knew full well that he would begin caring for her own safety, comfort and happiness over his own (he always had, after all) and he could predict that in six months or less the two of them would be back on a bus to Lark Creek, back to their hellish household, never again to taste the sweetness of freedom. And as much as he adored the brunette girl, losing his sovereignty was a risk he could no longer afford to take.

"May…" He began hesitantly, his voice crackling under emotional strain. She looked up at him expectantly and a piece of his heart cracked and crumbled to dust upon his noticing the light in her eyes, for he could not remember the last time he had truly denied her something she desperately wanted, and she wanted this more desperately than anything else in the world.

He cleared his throat and blinked, trying to calm himself. He had to do this, for both of them. He just had to wait a little under a year—until April of 2011, to be exact; he would be eighteen by then—and he could come back without fear to see her, to see all of them, because he would be an adult, and no figurative shackles would bind his ankles unless he himself chose to put them on. A quick, clean break was what they both needed, and then he could go on and so would she, the wounds would bleed themselves dry and by the time he returned hopefully all resentment and pain would have dribbled out too. But right now he needed to make the cut. Because the sooner he did, the sooner it would heal.

"May," He started again, proud of the decisiveness in his tone. He had yet to waver, and he was hoping this was a sign that he could cut her with as little emotion as possible on his half.

"You'll let me go, won't you?" She interrupted. He said nothing, and she began to panic, eyes widening as her voice sped up with fear. "You're taking me with you, aren't you? Oh Jess, please! You _have _to!"

"No." His voice dipped to an ashamed whisper in spite of himself. "No, I'm not going to take you with me. I'm sorry, May Belle. I can't…_you _can't…I'm doing this alone. You have to understand…"

"_You _have to understand, Jesse!" She was almost screaming at him now, and a fleck of fear seeded inside of his breastbone—what if she aroused their parents, or Ellie or Brenda? Joyce Ann was even a threat at the moment, and the most plausible and dangerous. His eyes became glued to the lump under the faded quilt that was haphazardly draped over the bed next to May Belle's, watching with a palpitating heart the uneasy movements that were beginning to occur underneath it.

May Belle's tirade was not done, much to her brother's dismay. She went on, letting her pent up emotions free after weeks of worry. "You can't just _abandon _me here! How cruel can you be, Jess? I'm your _sister_, for crying out loud. You're asking me to _lie _to our parents—our family—about something you're trying to do that could get you _killed_! Honestly, Jess, are you completely insane? How stupid, irrational and _dangerous_ can you possibly be…"

She was full out yelling now, and nervous sweat began to accumulate on his neck. Joyce Ann moaned in discomfort under her blankets, stirring to the point of near wakefulness. Jess, in panic, clapped a hand over her mouth and snarled into her ear.

"_May Belle_," Even he was surprised by the true animosity in his tone, he hadn't so much as snapped at her since they were small children. They relied on each other's loyalty far too much to risk it on petty disagreements, or so he had thought. It all seemed like another life to him now, a dream, a wish, or a faded memory. He growled at her again, unable to control his anger, even though it wasn't really her who had caused him such pain. "_Stop it._"

Stop she did; her voice died in her throat and he felt her quiver slightly. Remorse flooded through him, and he gently slid his hand away from her mouth—even more guilt filled him as he heard her noisy exhale; he had been clamping her so hard she could barely breathe—allowing it to rest firmly between the base of her neck and her right shoulder. He willed his tone to relax from a snarl to a whisper, trying to calm himself down. He spoke to her gently, as if she were once again that little six year old with the missing front tooth and lopsided ponytails, the one who loped around in Brenda's old red cardigan and the hand-me-down dresses, the child who was excited by little things like Barbie dolls and Twinkies.

"May, I'm sorry…" He breathed deeply, shutting his eyes for a moment before willing them to open again and focus on the traumatized sister before him. She had turned her head away from him; her profile revealed the beginnings of tears sparkling in the dark eyes they both shared and the pitiful set of her mouth.

"You have to be quiet," He whispered to her, feeling a sinking helplessness wash over him. Like a zombie, he repeated what he had first told her when she had discovered him awake. "You'll wake Joycie."

She turned to face him abruptly; the tears in her eyes dried by a fire that now replaced the sadness that had been there from the start.

"You don't give a rat's hat about Joyce Ann, Jesse." She hissed fiercely. "I'm not a child. I know that you just don't want her to spoil your little plan. I understand that, but I'd appreciate it if you'd tell me the truth. Don't lie to me if you expect me to lie for you in a few hours."

He was taken aback by the change in her behavior. "I'm not lying, May Belle. I would never lie to you. You know that, you _have _to know that. We're a team, remember?"

"You're sure not acting like it, Jesse Oliver. You're _abandoning _me, remember?" The cold sarcasm in her tone stung, it was if she had morphed into Ellie before his eyes. He realized now how deeply he was hurting her; perhaps her wound wouldn't be healed in a year's time, as he had hoped. Maybe it would never stop bleeding. The thought made his heart ache.

"I'm not abandoning you, May Belle." He shot back, feeling somewhat like an eight year old, arguing over something pointless.

"Well then, what do you call your leaving me? Leaving _us_? You say we're a team. You've always told me that, and you've been telling Joyce Ann too. You _promised_, Jess. Don't you remember?"

"Remember what?" His voice was almost inaudible; he found it hard to keep eye contact with her.

"That day, three summers ago? We were playing in the woods before dinner, and I got the back of my T-shirt caught in that patch of bramble bushes?"

"You had strayed off the path," He added, recalling the event with a bitter sadness, he could still feel the panic that had built in his chest as he ran, calling her name. "I thought you were behind me, but I looked and you were gone…"

"I got scared." She continued. "I started crying and calling you. You finally found me, but I was still upset when you did. I thought you had given up and gone back to the house without me. But you didn't, did you?"

"No." He admitted. "You scared the hell outta me, May. I couldn't think about going home without you."

"You told me that. Do you remember what else you told me, Jess?"

"No." That was a lie.

"You told me I was silly to think you would leave me behind. You said we were a team—you said you would _never _leave me, no matter what. You said we were family, and on top of that we were friends, kinda, and you just can't leave behind people who fall into those categories. Do you remember now, Jess?" Her innocence was back once more, and it made her words even more painful to hear.

"Sorta…May Belle…"

"_What_, Jess? What's different now? What did I do to make you change your mind?"

He looked at her expectant, wounded eyes and found his own closing yet again, felt his hand covering his face as another heavy sigh filled his ribs.

It was never going to be easy, was it?

"Ten minutes," He said after a long period of silence, not even bothering to remove his hand from his face.

"Huh?"

"We leave in ten minutes. Hurry up."

* * *

**Author's Notes: **There's chapter three for you! This originally was going to cover a much longer period of time, but I thought it might be a bit too lengthy, so I decided to split it up. I hope you enjoyed, and please review!


	5. Departures & Dreams

**Disclaimer: **As per usual, _Bridge to Terabithia _and all of its components (i.e. characters, settings, etc.) is the property of the Paterson family and their official affiliates, not me. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

**Long Way Down**

**Chapter Four:**

**Departures & Dreams**

* * *

Jesse stood, rather impatiently, in the hallway just outside of the bedroom he shared with his younger sisters. The hall, unlike the room he had departed from, was pitch black; and despite his advanced age the childhood fears were beginning to descend upon him. The windowless expanse provided him with no natural lighting, as their bedroom did, and his family could not seem to afford the extravagance of a nightlight near the bathroom door.

He scolded himself—internally, of course—for his infantile thoughts, and chocked it up to nerves. He and May Belle were supposed to have slipped out into the night five minutes ago, but his sister had yet to emerge from their shared boudoir. He longed to see what was so important as to delay their departure, but the strong-willed eleven year old had kicked him out within moments of his consent for her company on his journey—which he had originally intended to be a solo trek—so that she could dress herself properly for the trip ahead. Those had been her almost exact words, and as he stood alone in the blackness he found himself wondering if she even knew what she was saying. He had yet to tell her of his plan, how could she _possibly _know what to expect? Perhaps, he concluded, it was a female thing; his mother was forever pulling things like that on all of her children, not just him and May. Maybe the girl's understanding—or lack thereof, he had yet to see what she had deemed appropriate—was a juvenile state of the trait their mother displayed.

Thinking of his mother reminded him of both of his parents, who were at present sound asleep in the only downstairs bedroom; oblivious to the fact that by the time dawn broke over the Virginia horizon in a matter of hours, two of their five children would be gone, perhaps forever. The forthcoming intransience of the state of affairs struck him for the first time since he had made the decision to depart from his home, and he felt a bizarre sentiment quell in his stomach, an unpleasant combination that seemed to be comprised of a sense of woe and—much to his own personal disgust—culpability. May Belle's pain upon discovering his intention to leave had nearly destroyed him; in a way he was glad that she had asked to come along, rather than begging him to stay. The first idea, while not the easiest, would be the most comfortable to live with the long run. Still he could not shake the nagging pain of irresponsibility; while he did not believe at all that his elder sisters would mourn his absence from their family, and he had serious doubts about his Dad (if asked to bet, he would place his money in the part that said that his father would take the same approach that Ellie and Brenda would, though it did sadden him, to some degree) he worried the most for Joyce Ann, and some for his mother. May Belle's words, which he had at first assumed were merely a tool of guilt used to help her win the argument, now haunted him with their cold truth:

_"Well then, what do you call your leaving me? Leaving _us_? You say we're a team. You've always told me that, and you've been telling Joyce Ann too. You _promised_, Jess. Don't you remember?"_

Maybe Joyce Ann _would _miss him, miss them. While she was just a little girl—not quite seven years old—she too felt the strain that had slowly been descending over their household as of late, though she was not psychologically mature enough to understand or place it just yet. She clung to May Belle like a limpet, more often than not he found her curled up on the older girl's bed, most likely without her knowledge, because Joyce never looked particularly comfortable—sometimes she slept balled up at her sister's feet or by her ribs, like a little dog. And lately, whenever he was in a ten foot radius of their father, Joyce Ann would squeeze his hand, and when the older man had gone she would whisper words of comfort or ask if he was doing okay. He wondered, now, as he stood alone in the blackness, if the little girl who rested peacefully on the other side of the door would ever grow to understand why her favorite siblings had up and left in the middle of the night, without so much as a goodbye or an explanation. Would she try to understand, or would the confusion merely grow to a hot resentment as time went on, forever severing the bond that the trio had begun to form?

His head swirled with confusion. Was this what Ms. Edmunds had meant when she told him about finding pride in himself, about fighting for his sovereignty no matter the cost? When she had smiled at him, so brightly, and said: "You can do better than this, Jess. I know it." Had she only been talking about the painting he had left on her desk that afternoon, or had there been more to her message, as he had originally guessed when he saw the depth of the kind light in her clear eyes? He didn't know at present, and he was beginning to question if he had _ever _known. Part of him felt he would give anything in order to go back to that day, when it was just the two of them in the safe, pastel blue walls of the art room, so that he might have the opportunity to ask for clarification.

In the room beside theirs one of his elder sisters rolled over in her sleep, the old box spring groaning as she shifted her weight. The sound, however simple or common it may have been, nearly caused Jess to cry out in fear. He swallowed the scream before it could slide past his lips, but he could not prevent himself from giving a nervous little leap into the air. He thought briefly about running—perhaps he could dart into the bathroom before anybody could see that he was fully dressed. There was no need, however; several long, beautiful seconds passed with no signs of approaching danger. Nevertheless, he was at his wits end, and had serious thoughts about ignoring his sister's wishes and going into their room.

In the end, he didn't have reason for this either, seconds after the thought crossed his mind the door slid open and out stepped May Belle, quiet as a mouse. He looked at her through the shadows: Gone were the pink T-shirt and shorts she slept in, in their place was a pair of blue jeans and a black tank top that used to be Brenda's, the words _Cherry Bomb_ printed in eroding red text over the classic picture of the all-girl punk band and their logo, a red maraschino cherry with its stem lit by a spark of fire. Her hair, still matted by sleep, had been shoved under his old Yankees cap that he had outgrown last year, and a paint splattered hoodie from his eighth grade year was slung over her shoulders, along with her pink and black backpack.

"I have a suitcase packed on my bed," she hissed. "Let me just grab some stuff outta the bathroom and we can go." She waved the empty toiletry case in front of her face to prove her point before dashing into the small lavatory across the hall and silently shutting the door behind her.

The valise May Belle spoke of turned out to be two—a lavender duffle she used for long trips to the grandparents and a smaller yellow suitcase, classic in shape, which he recognized as Joyce Ann's. From the murky light cast by the moon he could just make out that the closet doors had been flung open, most of the clothes missing. The drawers of her flower laden dresser were all pulled out, bear of any kind of sock, undergarment or pajama. Only the knit cap with the neon daisies remained; shoved into a corner. Their father's aunt—the children knew her as great-aunt Adelaide—had given that to May on her seventh birthday, the last hand-made gift she ever presented before she died three weeks later. Jess's heart panged, and he didn't understand why—they had never been close to great-aunt Adelaide, Jess had seen her twice before May Belle's birthday, and the first time had been when he was five days old, still in the hospital. When she died, Joyce Ann was only beginning to eat solid foods, and May Belle wasn't fully accustomed to the idea of death. Only Ellie and Brenda recalled the older woman with more clarity than he, but not by much. What the three oldest children remembered the most was not even their lost relative, but their father's grief upon her passing. Adelaide had been more of a mother to him than his own; as a boy it had been her who greeted him after school while his parents were working. He had become a zombie; barely eating, never speaking, always working, his hand wiping away tears before they would fall. It was then that his relationship with his father truly began to take a turn for the worst; and it didn't help that the two of them had never been particularly close to begin with. He remembered the one night he tried to provide his father with comfort, days after news of Adelaide's death had reached them. Jack Aarons was sitting in the old recliner in the den, eyes closed. Jess, though already thirteen at the time, felt the need to provide the suffering man with physical affection, but he was not quite sure how to go about it. In the end he had merely stood by the chair and placed a hand on his Dad's shoulder, but the gesture went unacknowledged. After a moment Jack merely stood up and walked into the other room, brushing off his son's hand like he was some sort of annoying insect. Subsequent to that, Jess never quite felt the same again. It was as if his place in the family had been taken over by Adelaide's memory and the desires of the wife and daughters to comfort Jack's sore heart, which he accepted warmly. It was only Jess who was shut out the in the coldest phases of his father's mourning, and he never really felt that he had been invited back in. He reached out to touch Adelaide's offering with trembling fingers, wondering why May Belle had left it behind.

Centimeters from contact he jerked away like he had been burned. He wanted nothing to do with that hat, the cursed thing that reminded him of when he had become an outsider in his own family. He was glad May had chosen to leave it behind. Perhaps their parents would see it, and maybe his father would begin to understand…

He turned away from his sister's dresser and snagged her bags, slinging the duffel over his right shoulder, his own bag on the left. He gripped the yellow suitcase in his left hand, holding it like a regular bag instead of going through the noisy process of rolling it. Making sure to fasten his jacket around his waist, he turned to depart from their room, but before he realized what he was doing he doubled back and snatched great-aunt Adelaide's hat from the drawer, rolling it up to fit in the back pocket of his jeans. A final farewell to his father, he decided. Upon his departure, there should be no desire for grief.

* * *

After a slow, tense five minutes, Jess and May Belle were standing on the front porch of the little red house, walking briskly—yet quietly—towards Jesse's pickup, a blessing that was nowhere near _new_, but it was new to _him_, at least. The 1992 Chevy would probably be despised, or at least disliked, by any other seventeen year old male, but to Jess is was a saving grace. The vehicle, with its dented tailgate, rusted hood, faded navy paint and an almost nonexistent back seat; was far from perfect, but he considered it his one-way ticket to independence. Quickly and silently he sprinted to the car, painfully aware that the air was beginning to get warmer; and though light had yet to show in the sky, he still felt anxiety weighing heavily on his shoulders. He unlocked the driver's side door with slightly trembling hands, tossing all of the bags haphazardly into the back seat before unbolting the passenger's door for May Belle, who was waiting for him, oddly calm.

"You don't have to be so nervous, you know," She informed him as she clambered up into the passenger's seat, tossing her backpack into the center seat. "Momma and Dad aren't gonna wake up. They were both exhausted tonight at dinner. Where were you, anyway?"

One habit his sister had yet to grow out of with age was asking inappropriate or personal questions during inopportune times, and he discovered that this particular trait vexed him as much now as it had when he was nine or ten years old. He was grateful for the brief pause that the slamming door graced him with, allowing him the chance to collect the thoughts that had become quickly disheveled by her question. Part of him wondered why he was caught off guard by her inquiry; it wasn't as if he hadn't missed many meals before last night's leftover meatloaf and asparagus. Perhaps the disconcerting thing was that she had noticed his absence—maybe he _wasn't _as invisible as he thought himself to be, the factor that helped his plan in succeeding above all else? He forced himself to shake the gnawing coldness of fear and answer her as calmly as he could, but still his voice wavered somewhat.

"I was down at the creek,"

She seemed confused by what he had thought to be a simple, straightforward, unquestionable answer. "The creek? What creek?"

It was easier for him to laugh things off, now that she had provided him with the opportunity. "And I thought you knew those old woods as well as I do, May. You know—_the creek_." Part of him was beginning to wonder if sleep deprivation was getting to him. Why were they playing these games, sitting idly in the truck, when they needed to put as much distance as possible between themselves and Lark Creek before the sun showed its first rays?

"The one that runs behind the old farmhouse next door?" She asked; gesturing to the large white house across the road from theirs that had been vacant for the better half of eight years. Tenants had wandered in and out of that house for the majority of his childhood and all of May Belle's, none of them staying longer than six months. Most of the townsfolk joked that the house—known as the Old Perkins Place, after George Perkins, the farmer who had originally constructed the house back in the 1960s and had later established one of the largest working farms in the state of Virginia, forever putting Lark Creek on the map as one of the greatest agricultural towns in the region, though it was nearly bare of any farming now—was haunted by the ghost of Leila Perkins, George's daughter, who had been quite like Ophelia: fair haired, pretty, and emotionally distraught, left mentally insane after the death of a parent, though unlike Hamlet's lover, Leila had lost her mother, not her father, and she had no need for a kindly brother to defend her honor, because she had neither a brother nor a delusional aficionado from whom she needed to be protected. She did not stray _too _far from the path, however, because like Ophelia before her, Leila drowned herself out of grief, sometime in the early 1970s. But Leila's ghost must have moved on to go haunt some other house, because Jess had been hearing that a couple from the city had purchased the house some months before and were in the process of having it renovated.

"The very same." He answered her.

"What were you doing down there?"

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes at her nosy inquiries and to twitch with anticipation, he answered as calmly as he could. "Drawing mostly, and a little bit of thinking in between."

"Why didn't you take me with you?"

He sighed deeply. They hadn't even begun the drive to DC and already he was beginning to feel exhausted.

"Sometimes…sometimes I just need to be alone, May."

"You're _always _alone," She told him matter-of-factly. "Don't you get lonely?"

Instead of responding immediately, he yanked his key ring from the pocket of his jeans and shoved the faded silver one into the ignition, twisting it quickly, switching off the headlights before pressing down on the gas pedal and easing the vehicle down the dirt driveway, towards the expanse of black highway that they would meet soon enough. All the while he kept his eyes on the rearview mirror, watching the red house and its dark windows slowly be swallowed up by the night.

_You didn't kiss Joyce Ann goodbye._ A voice in his head whispered, and his heart panged. What kind of a brother, what kind of a son, what kind of a _person_ was he? At least he didn't have to worry about being looked for—he felt certain now that he wasn't worth it. Ms. Edmunds, he realized, was wrong. Running away, it wasn't about doing better for himself. It was about doing what was best for the family he was leaving behind, the family he now realized he loved in spite of all the pain they had been through. They were the primary strands that wove the tapestry of his life, he knew almost nothing outside of the world of Lark Creek. Those five people—six, if he counted May Belle—who were still sleeping soundly in the house that was now just a speck in his eyes, had made up all the world he knew for the majority of his seventeen years. He should feel pain, he realized, or at least more pain than he was experiencing, or even nothing at all. But this middle ground…it felt like torture. He had always been a fairly decisive person, even as a young boy and part of that was due to the painfully obvious shades of black and white that he had always been shown. His parents had never shown their children the murky grays that the real world was made up of; he had figured those out on his own as he aged, as Ellie and Brenda had before him. He looked over at May Belle, who had since turned her gaze away from him in favor of placing her forehead against the window. Why was _she_ here? It occurred to him then that he had never bothered to look past her original explanation of not wanting to live without him, and as he studied her petite form without her observant eyes on him—something that hadn't happened at all in the last year or so—he saw her for what she was. A girl, not quite a child or a woman, but still not even a teenager; someone who had figured out the world's shades of gray before any of her siblings had even thought that they might have existed. May Belle was not just a child, and she would never be a teenager that could be completely described by the stereotypical definition. His little sister was just a _person_, she was nothing more than the self God had envisioned. She would never be hindered by the normal; she would merely _be_, allowing life's lessons and adventures to shape her as she pleased.

With a new found respect for the brunette in the passenger's seat he answered the question she had already assumed he would never reply to; though his voice was so low and broken she didn't hear him.

"Yeah. Sometimes I do get lonely."

When they at last pulled out onto the black pavement he rolled down his window, surprised by the coolness that had suddenly arrived. He ignored the slight bite in the breeze as he fished into his black pocket for the hat his great-aunt had fashioned for May Belle, tossing it out the crack. He watched in his rearview as the fabric blew and tumbled across the expanse of highway behind him, the neon colors being engulfed by gray as they drove further and further away from their home.

* * *

Hours passed as they drove down the blacktop, and the first rays of sun broke over the Virginia skyline while May Belle snored fitfully in her seat, never even stirring. Jess was beginning to get excessively weary; as his tired eyes registered the sign that read _Roanoke: Five Miles_, a flash of early light reflected off of the metallic lettering a blinded him momentarily. In that second he thought he saw himself in the forest behind the long abandoned Perkins house, following a brightly colored blob of cloth down the weather worn path to the creek, where the hat picked up on one final gust of wind and floated into the murky water before him, sinking into the depths. Beside him, a girl who was maybe thirteen years old knelt on the edge of the bank, apparently oblivious to his presence. She had one arm wrapped around her ribs, and the other was outstretched, her fingertips almost grazing the surface of the creek's dirty water. Her clothes were old, or at least to him—they were the garments of his parent's youth. Her long gold hair hung in waves around her face, mopping up the wetness from the silent sobs cascading from her blue-gray eyes. Deeply disturbed by the scene before him, he reached out to touch her shoulder, as he had done for his father all those years ago, but just as his fingers skimmed the surface of her billowy shirt sleeve, the mirage vanished, and the imagined image of Leila Perkins's grief was dissolved by a flash of sunlight that reminded him of fire. The image would haunt him for weeks to come, though in his sleep, the saving grace of the sun's warmth would be replaced by a sheet of unforgiving ice, swallowing his screams of confusion, worry and anger—he could never remember giving into his emotional desires, but he always did—as well as her sobs, taking their misery as if it were a single entity.

* * *

_Fire. _All she was fire. The same dream had haunted her every night for the last six months, but the terror never lessened. She was standing, alone, in the old brick lined alley that ran behind the apartment building she had lived in when she was eight, back when their family had lived in Florida, before they even set foot on Virginia soil. She was cornered against the worn wall, watching in mute horror as the hedge of orange inched forward to engulf her. She couldn't run, she couldn't scream, all she could do was wait with a pounding heart for the pain to come. It was not the kind of pain one would usually associate with a mass of flame, something that never ceased to amaze her dream-self. Her wonder was short lived; however, because she always discovered that the pain she was feeling was far more excruciating then even the most severe physical burns. Lost in the mass of color and light, she could never find her way out. Now she could scream, but no one heard. She was terrified, she wanted—_needed_—help, guidance. In the distance she could hear frantic voices calling to her, barking orders that would surely keep her safe. Other people moaned words of distraught worry, obviously in anguish over her safety.

"_So come get me!"_ She yelled, but the people never heard. _"If you're so worried, do something! Save me!" _Nothing. No one ever came, called or answered. After awhile the voices on the other side of the wall died away, and she was left alone. She began to feel the effects of the fire on her body, which suddenly felt very fragile and mortal. Her eyes watered, her throat was dry, her skin was alive with the heat. Worn down, she sank to the cracked asphalt below her, curling up into a tiny ball.

"_Please," _She whispered, with what always felt like her dying breath. _"Somebody help me."_

She survived the effect of the flames long enough to hear the voices of the crowd again. They were close, _so _close. It sounded like they were hovering over her. _"You need help?"_

"_Yes, oh, yes. Please…I'm so tired…" _She tried to look up, but the force of the fire was too strong. It fell onto her, forcing her to stay in her ball. The people sighed in unison, clucking their tongues with an air of disgust.

"_We are VERY disappointed in you." _They said, suddenly much louder than she remembered. Each word sent hundreds of painful vibrations directly into her ear, each slightly stronger than the last. Her temples throbbed.

"_I'm sorry!" _She cried out, smoke filling her lungs. _"I'm sorry. I'll do better…" _She began to cough and gag. "_Please…just help me, and I'll make everything right…" _Her voice was so weak; she barely recognized it as her own.

"_Goodbye…" _They called, almost happily, and she felt them fade away, the fire growing stronger with each second, as if the people had been holding it above her.

"_No!" _She called out with what she now realized with certainty was her last breath, there was too much smoke, no more oxygen clean enough for her to inhale. _"No…please. Don't leave me…" _ She pleaded to no one as the mass of heat and color devoured what was left of her.

Most nights the sound of her own screaming roused her from her slumber. The shrieks always came with the end of the dream—part of her psyche always seemed to hold on as the rest of her body was taken prisoner by the fire. She did not make it that far on that particular evening; the sound of a large metal door clanging shut somewhere below jerked her into consciousness.

She lay there in the tangled mass of sheets, trembling and sweaty, green eyes blinking away the thin layer of tears that had yet to fall. She struggled to adjust to the darkness, the disorienting feeling of cool air that she had been so certain she would never feel again. No one was with her in her small dark room, no condescending voices hissed in her ears. She repeated the fact to herself like a mantra as she reminded herself to breathe, as she adjusted herself on the pillow, damp with perspiration, and tried to sleep again. As she always did, Leslie Burke awoke from deep terror completely and utterly _alone_.

**

* * *

Author's Notes:** These chapters never really seem to go how I've planned. Information I intended to include two chapters ago has yet again been pushed aside. Perhaps we can shoot for chapter six? ;) I hope this chapter wasn't boring for you all; for me it seemed to contain essential information that wouldn't have really flowed put elsewhere. If any of you caught on to the nod to The Runaways that was featured in May Belle's attire and are curious as to why I included it…it just seemed to fit, for a multitude of reasons. I thought it showed that May Belle, while still herself, is not six years old anymore, and has a more broad understanding of the world than anyone—including Jess—might initially expect. Doesn't _Cherry Bomb_ seem like a song she would grow to enjoy as she grew older? Leslie, I think, may have also harbored a liking for it in her secret—or maybe not so secret—heart. Also, seeing as The Runaways were at their peak in the 1970s, one could view is as a nod to the decade in which the original _Bridge to Terabithia _novel was published. And if you're more attached to the 2007 movie, consider it an extreme fourth wall reference to Josh Hutcherson's filmography, because Dakota Fanning and Kristen Stewart star as Cherie Currie and Joan Jett, respectively, in a movie about the band that was released this year. And since Dakota also tried out for the role of Leslie, doesn't it tie everything together? :) Moving away from that, an anonymous reviewer called "Gynny" left a review reminding me that some of the events in the prologue no longer coincide with the story. I've been trying to edit it on the document manager, but Fanfiction has been acting up. I'll do my best to get everything up to speed soon! For those of you who stuck by this ridiculously long author's note, thank you! I hope you enjoyed, and please drop a review.


	6. Another Perfect Lie

**Disclaimer: **As stated in all preceding chapters, _Bridge to Terabithia _is the property of the Paterson family and their official affiliates. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

**Long Way Down**

**Chapter Five:**

**Another Perfect Lie

* * *

**

The glowing green numbers of the clock in his dashboard told Jesse that it was precisely 6:13 AM when he pulled the pickup in front of a worn down diner in the heart of Roanoke. It was questionable looking from the outside, he studied the crumbling brick structure long and hard as he sat inside the cab, directly underneath the neon sign that he had seen from a distance as they were traveling down the freeway. He hadn't had any intentions of stopping before arriving in Washington, but after the recent mishap involving his drowsiness and the bizarre vision about the creek and the golden haired girl—who he now unconsciously believed to be Leila Perkins—he figured he was in need of breakfast, or at the very least a cup of decent coffee. The truck had chosen that time to be hungry as well, and the half-dead sign advertising a Mobil station and the almost blinding blue, yellow and orange arrow that sported the word _DINER_ in ruby red seemed to be a perfect and necessary combo. He had pulled into the gas station first and nearly vomited when he saw the price of diesel, despite his empty stomach. Grudgingly, he walked into the mini mart and handed two twenties to a bored and exhausted looking college kid who asked if he wanted a credit card application. He declined, and the male's next offer was a two for one deal that applied to both the gallons of whole milk that sat in the refrigerated section in the back of the store and the various grades of Marlboros that glittered faintly in the glass case that was built into the counter. He declined yet again, but decided to pick up a foot long Slim Jim for himself and a king sized Hershey bar for May Belle. Both were only ninety-nine cents, and would most likely prove to be useful later. Their treats lay atop May Belle's backpack in the center seat, and the young girl was still dozing with her forehead against the window pane. The truck was off, keys still in the ignition, and Jess was staring at the brick building before him, trying to decide if it was the sort of place people went to do restaurant shootings. Eventually, his grumbling stomach decided for him. As far as he could tell, this section of Roanoke was one of the few places in the entire continental US that _didn't _house a Denny's, and the handmade poster taped up in one of the windows—which was just a piece of white construction paper and a black Sharpie—advertising two pancakes, a sausage link and a hardboiled egg for five ninety-nine was probably the closest he would get to a Grand Slam this morning. Through the grimy window he could see only one customer; a man who was probably in his mid to late sixties with a gray, Wyatt Earp style mustache and a faded baseball hat, sitting alone in a booth, sipping something out of a mug while reading the newspaper. Jess watched as the man's gnarled, prune like hands trembled with fatigue, and as he rubbed is slumping brow tiredly the younger man decided that the stranger was not odd enough to deter him from a hot breakfast and caffeine. While there wasn't the emotional comfort of a familiar franchise behind it, Libby's—as it was named on the faded wood sign above the door—would have to do.

He pulled his keys from the ignition decidedly, simultaneously unbuckling his seatbelt as he shoved them into the front pocket of his jeans before reaching over to shake his sleeping sister's shoulder.

"May," He said gently, lightly jostling her all the while. "Hey, May…"

"Ugh…" She moaned sleepily, jerking away from his touch, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand, though they stayed closed.

"May Belle," He said, raising his voice to normal volume. "Come on. Get up."

"No…" She grunted, swatting at him feebly.

"Yes, little sister," He smiled, though she couldn't see it. "Time to rise and shine."

"Are we there yet?" She asked, her tone vaguely annoyed, her eyes shut tight all the while.

"Not quite, no."

"Then _why_ are you waking me up?"

He decided on the direct approach. "Look, do you want breakfast or not?"

This got her attention. She cracked one eye open to peep at him. "Breakfast?" She asked in a way that made it seem as though she only half believed him.

"Yep."

"What is my breakfast, exactly?"

"Whatever's on the menu, I guess."

"When?"

He grinned, knowing he had won her over. "As soon as you get your sleepy butt outta the car, that's when. Hurry up, please? I don't know about you, but I'm starving."

She inhaled deeply, blinking her eyes slowly. "Yeah…" She paused to yawn. "I could eat. And I _do _need to use the bathroom."

"Good. Let's get going, shall we?" He opened his door and climbed out while May Belle unhooked her seatbelt. Still drowsy, she didn't appear to notice the snacks resting atop her book bag, and shoved them messily onto the floor before slinging the pack over her shoulder and sliding out of the truck into the parking lot.

The tired duo walked up to the restaurant, which looked more like a house from the outside. It was built in the ranch style, with a long concrete porch and several windows on the front, crafted almost entirely out of red brick and gray grout, save for the pine beams that held a small overhang up over the portico. The sole entrance wasn't comprised of heavy metal strips and glass panes like they had become accustomed to; instead it was a simple door, much like the one that led into their own home, painted a rusty red color that was almost the exact same color as the building's exterior. The knob was one that you might use on a bedroom door, with a faux gold finish that was beginning to tarnish. The stained glass window glinted faintly from the inside, catching the light of the lamps within.

Jess pulled open the door, which was surprisingly heavy, and ushered his road-weary sister inside the brightly lit room. A blast of cold air hit him in the face, a groaning swamp cooler by the window churning faintly over the sounds of clattering pots and pans and chefs calling back and forth to one another over the clamor. He was hit with the scents of a hot breakfast: Buttered biscuits straight out of the oven, black coffee, bacon, eggs frying in a pan, potatoes sizzling in a skillet with onions, garlic and peppers, burning toast, the faint but distinct sweetness of fresh fruit being attacked with a knife and the almost overwhelming, slightly sugary, slightly bitter scent of maple syrup. He imagined all the foods the overpowering syrup would coat—pancakes, waffles, French toast, or maybe a hot, steaming bowl of oatmeal, topped with fresh strawberries and a little dollop of sweetened whipping cream…his mouth began to water as he guided May Belle towards the small, artificial pine podium that blocked the entrance to the eating area. A smiling woman, maybe in her late thirties, stood behind it, her slightly weatherworn hands clasped and resting atop the tiny table. She was clad in traditional restaurant clothing: A black button down shirt and black pants with a short red apron tied around her waist. Her honey blonde curls were pulled away from her face and piled on top of her head with some bobby pins, showing off her dark eyes and the black eyeliner that almost coated the entirety of her lids, making it appear as though she was going to a ball rather than working the morning shift at a hole-in-the-wall diner in Virginia. She seemed just a tad too chipper to Jess as she spoke.

"Hello, and welcome to Libby's! My name is Miriam. What can I do for you kids on this fine morning?"

The morning felt anything but fine to Jess, who was beginning to feel serious lethargy, but he tried to respond as politely as he could, and given his current state of exhaustion and hunger he actually sounded quite mentally incompetent as he stated the obvious. "We'd like some breakfast please."

Miriam, however, did not seem to find this to be stupid or annoying at all, as he later thought he surely must have seemed. Instead she just laughed, a little wisp of a laugh, and shook her head so that her curls waggled about, caching the light of the stained glass lamps that hung just about everywhere. "Silly me," She said, gathering some menus from behind the podium. "_Of course_ you want some breakfast! What else would you be doing at a diner at six o'clock in the morning?"

The way she worded the question, combined with her tone, made Jess believe that she actually wanted an answer. He resisted the urge to sigh dramatically or pinch the bridge of his nose between his fingers and tried to answer her easily. But all he really wanted was some food, coffee and a nap…

"I dunno," He answered lamely, but he was too tired to really even care. Miriam actually seemed somewhat offended as she spoke again; some of her chipper demeanor was replaced with stereotypical robot-like politeness.

"Will it be just the two of you this morning?" She asked in a clipped tone, fingering the two carte du jour she had already gathered. "Or do I need to grab two more menus for Mom and Dad?"

The words roused him from his fog like a bucket of ice water had just been dumped over his head. Part of him knew he should be prepared for this—he was still a year away from legal adulthood, and he knew that people would naturally ask where his parents were. He had hoped that once he had established himself as an artist in DC people would stop caring as much; it wasn't as if he was going to try and buy tobacco or alcohol, and the fact that he could get into an R-rated movie without a guardian would prove to be a strong enough cover for most passersby. What he _hadn't _factored in was outright questions, like Miriam's. And so _soon_! Internally, he kicked himself for his stupidity. This should have been the easiest scenario to think of! Even a simple "No," would have sufficed in this given situation, but instead he found his mouth—and the rest of his body—frozen with stress. He was vaguely aware that his mouth was hanging open in an awkward sort of "O" shape; Miriam's cocked eyebrow was proof enough of that. He struggled with himself, trying to find the perfect excuse for both their lack of parents and his bizarre behavior. He ran through a brief list of options in his head, each more ludicrous than the last.

_I'm driving my sister to a school field trip in Washington DC._

_Mom (or Dad, whichever) is in the hospital, Dad (or Mom) told us to go get some food while he (she?) takes the daytime watch._

_Parents are dead —stopping for food before heading to the bus station so we can go live with Grandma._

Just before he opened his mouth to explain about his little sister's—imaginary—field trip, May Belle herself spoke; her voice calm and collected, unwavering and strikingly adult sounding, and he found himself gaping again as she lied more effortlessly than he ever imagined she could.

"No, Ma'am, it's just the two of us today." She spoke with a chirpy tone, but then immediately dropped her eyes to the floor and lowered her voice, allowing her exhaustion to masquerade as sadness. He noticed how her shoulders sagged and a large chunk of tangled hair fell from under his old baseball cap, how she clasped her hands behind her back like they were singing hymns in church and blinked a few times, as if trying to choke back tears. "You see, Ma'am, our great-aunt Adelaide died just last week. Auntie was really the only family our Daddy ever had, and he's oh so sad…we're on our way to the funeral. I got hungry, but Daddy didn't wanna stop, so he made my brother…" Here she paused and tilted her eyes sideways towards Jess, who managed to snap out of his stupor long enough to clear his throat awkwardly and nod vaguely in Miriam's direction. "…pull his truck over at the gas station here in town so I could get in with him and get some food. I feel bad leaving Daddy alone, even though he's got Momma and my sisters, because he's just _so _depressed..." She paused again, this time to sigh tiredly and let her shoulders droop just an inch more before glancing up at the blonde woman through her eyelashes, letting her calf brown irises shine with sweetness as she said: "But a growing girl has gotta eat, doesn't she? And I was wondering—might you be able to direct me to the ladies room, please?"

While Jess was gaping at the little brunette's new acting abilities and wondering when the girl who had spent four or so years of her life flushing Barbie dolls down the toilet had turned into someone who had no problem killing off great-aunt Adelaide four years later as a puzzle piece in the world's most impromptu sob story, Miriam was eating out of the palm of her hand. The hostess placed her right hand over her heart and glanced sideways at the floor, as if she was actually deeply saddened by the tale May Belle had woven in a matter of moments. When she looked up again she shot the youngest member of the party a slightly watery smile before saying: "Walk through the dining room and go down the little hallway on the left. The ladies restroom will be on your right side, next to the janitor's closet. I'll show your brother to a table while you take care of business, alright?"

In the blink of an eye May Belle switched off the role of "concerned daughter" and returned to her normal self. "Thank you very much, Ma'am." She said kindly, shooting Miriam a warm smile before skipping through the empty dining room and disappearing down the hall that had just been described.

Jess watched her withdraw into the shadows of the poorly lit vestibule, hoping desperately that he wasn't gaping like a fish and ruining the near perfect cover story that his sister had just concocted for them. Either he was doing a spectacular job of acting like great-aunt Adelaide had only been dead for one week instead of two hundred and eight—unlikely—or Miriam felt so touched by the events they were supposedly experiencing that she chose to interpret his social oddities as his way of grieving—more likely than the first, but still not entirely probable—and she had decided to take the higher road and ignore his rather abnormal behavior. He determined that it was the second one when she patted his arm gently and said, "This way, honey."

He followed her dutifully through the almost empty room, glancing around in spite of himself. The little old man remained the sole customer besides himself, the drooping mustache disappearing inside of his coffee mug as he tilted it upward to snag the last few drops. The restaurant was not a large building in the least—the small hostess podium which Miriam had been standing behind just moments before was really just shoved into the dining room's entrance in order to make the place look grander. However, the dull orange paint, faux oak molding and paneling, the multitudes of stained glass light fixtures and the clock in the shape of a cat with moving eyes and a swishing tail cleanly destroyed any chances the establishment may have been presented in which to look classy. He slid into a booth two seats behind the man, feeling the sticky smoothness of the vinyl beneath him as his fingertips skimmed the surface. The booth that was on the wall where all the windows were; the landscape his eyes found was bleak and concrete despite the warm glow of the early morning light, a graveyard of a town that, he guessed, had most likely housed only tourists, truckers and families in the lower middle class some twenty or thirty years before. This side of the city was rather surprising to him; while his family had always been somewhat financially unstable, there had been times earlier in his youth, when May Belle was still a baby and Joyce Ann had yet to be born, or just had been born, when his parents had surprised them all on a Friday evening, announcing that they were going to drive the two hours to Roanoke—which was the closest "big" city to Lark Creek—for ice cream or a late movie or to window shop in the mall. And though Lark Creek did have an ice cream shop and a movie theater—alas, no mall, to the endless despair of his elder sisters—the choices were limited in comparison to those offered in the city. Jess remembered, even now, that he had often likened the city's bright and noisy atmosphere to pictures he saw of Manhattan, Los Angeles or Las Vegas and New Orleans during Christmas or Mardi Gras. He had realized by the time he was ten or eleven that this assumption was off by quite a bit, but he had never seen this side of the city until that very morning, the cold, unbreakable industrialism that seemed to hover over him, like a crushing weight, even in the bright and obnoxious tackiness of the restaurant. The stress of the adult nature of his realization made his temples ache dully, and he yearned for coffee more than ever. Forget his usual cream—today, he'd drink it black.

Miriam laid down the two menus on opposite sides of the table and produced two artfully folded napkins containing silverware from the pocket of her little red apron, which she laid down beside the menus with an almost robotic fluidity, the sign of someone who has done the exact same thing day after day for a very long time. Part of Jess's consciousness wondered if she noticed that he was simply staring out the window, chin resting in the palm of his left hand as his elbow stood on the tabletop, his right hand busy using his fingers to drum out a meaningless tune on the table's edge. Years of his mother's training yelled at him inside of his head; _you're being rude, Jesse! _Despite this, he kept his eyes on the gray mounds of asphalt and the symmetrical cement towers that housed, or had housed, God-Knows-What. It wasn't until Miriam's fingertips brushed his shoulder that he bothered to even glance at her. Her face seemed older somehow, as if trading her chipper hospitality for sympathy had aged her, or maybe removed a mask that made her seem young.

"Your server will be with you in a moment," The words were standard, they contained the same robotic fluidity that her laying of the silverware did, but Jess knew, without even having to think about it, that she never said them with a soft, understanding and almost maternal tone. The guilty reality set in—Miriam was just the first in what would be an undoubtedly long line of strangers he and May Belle weakened, hurt or confused with their perfectly acted sob stories. Their lives would become perfect lies, and soon the truth would fade away so much that even they forgot what it was. It was that realization that made him pull his eyes away from the window and smile at the blonde woman before him, though it was weak and watery. She returned the gesture, and the light seemed to come back into her eyes as she turned and walked with purpose towards a young waitress who was sitting on a stool in a back corner, filing her nails. Miriam bent down and whispered something in the girl's ear. Immediately the filing stopped and the stranger's eyes—a brown far muddier than his own—shot in his direction. Like a discomfited child, he turned his gaze to the window again.

Before he really even made out her figure skipping towards him from the hallway that led to the restrooms, May Belle was before him, sliding into the booth and opening the menu as she simultaneously unrolled her silverware with one hand. It was a messy job, sending the fork, spoon and butter knife clanging to the faux wood tabletop and sliding this way and that, stopping only when they hit the wall below the window. She paid no heed to the tiny disruption she had just caused, she only dropped the napkin so it fluttered into her lap like those tissue parachutes he used to tie to his army men when he was a little boy, the white cloth sinking under the table and out of his line of sight. Her eyes remained on the open menu before her through it all.

She had changed her appearance considerably while in the bathroom, he suddenly realized. Her hair was recently brushed, neatly parted, hanging down smooth and straight over her shoulders, the lamplight catching her blonde highlights, making her seem like she was three years old again, still mostly toothless and light haired, as Ellie had been before her, just like their mother had been as a girl. The baseball cap was gone; he presumed that she had tossed into her pack, which now touched the mostly bare skin of her shoulder, since she had tied the sweatshirt around her waist. The fluorescent lights showed off how faded her tank top was, but May Belle wasn't the sort of person to notice things like that. Knowing her, she probably enjoyed the feel and appearance of legitimately worn fabric.

"What are you having?" She asked, eyes never leaving the list of food in front of her face.

"I dunno. They haven't even taken our drink orders yet."

Just then the young waitress with the muddy brown eyes walked up to their table. She moved warily, as if she was a child approaching some large and intimidating animal in the zoo.

"Hi," She said slowly, eyeing both of them. "Can I get you two something to drink?"

"Milk please." May Belle answered automatically.

"Coffee," Jess added dully. "Black."

"You got it," The waitress jotted some words down on her little notepad before glancing back up at them. She seemed to be stalling, shifting her weight from one foot to another. Jess glanced at her, wondering if she was somewhat mentally incompetent. Her eyes were a bit dull—they carried no other shade, like his or May Belle's. They were just flat, empty mud, lined in thick black eyeliner. Her uniform was the same as Miriam's on the bottom: black pants and a little red apron. Her shirt, however, was a fuchsia polo, stretching over her pregnant belly. His eyes flitted to her nametag, so that he might address her by name when he asked her if she was alright. _Rosalind_, it read. An old fashioned name, to some degree, and certainly not one he put with her black hair up in a twist, tips dyed neon purple. She couldn't have been more than four years older than he, and he spotted no wedding band on her finger.

"Hey," Rosalind said suddenly, surprising them both. "Miriam told me about your aunt. I'm…sorry. That really sucks, you know?" When neither of them answered, she pressed on. "And just, order whatever you want, okay? It's on the house. Chef's orders."

"Oh," May Belle sounded genuinely astonished. "Thanks." Rosalind merely nodded and turned on her heel, marching the other way. May returned her attention to the menu with an excited sort of zeal—though Jess knew she would ultimately end up with the fanciest waffle the place had to offer and some kind of egg—while he resumed looking out the window. A bell on the front door rattled as the old man left the restaurant and walked right through Jess's direct vision, heading towards a battered car at the end of the cracked lot. The sun rose higher over the beaten-down buildings, and as the black haired waitress set their full glasses down on the table without so much as a word, he found himself wondering what it would feel like to run without the forgiving surface of fresh mud beneath his feet.

* * *

The sound of a backhoe and a shouting construction crew roused Mary Aarons from slumber just after seven o'clock. She rose, blearily, from her bed, Jack not even stirring as the noise whirred around their tiny bedroom, barely shifting as she cracked the blinds and peered out into the glowing morning light to watch the renovations on the house across the street. On his days off, Jack slept like he was dead, or close to it. After she grew tired of trying to make out what was going on across the road, she turned into the bathroom to brush her teeth and prepare for the day. As the water ran into the cracked basin and she began the rigorous scrubbing of her mouth, she began to wonder if their new neighbors would have any children.

* * *

While Leslie loved to run at any time of the day, mornings were by far her favorites. She enjoyed the moderate coolness, the relief from summer heat that evening would also provide, but mornings didn't have mosquitoes. She loved the change of textures beneath her feet as she sprinted down the property line between the city and the forest—asphalt, gravel, dirt, grass, and then cement again. She loved watching the morning rays filter in through the boughs of the pine trees and the sounds of the birds, squirrels and other woodland creatures waking up, starting their days anew. That promise of life was reassuring after her reoccurring night terrors. It provided her with the hope and courage to go through another day that would always end with a terrible night. She yearned to venture deeper into the woodlands, but a memory of her father speaking to her before her first Brownies camping trip always stopped her.

"_You're never to go into the woods alone, Leslie." He had told her solemnly, crouching low so his light brown eyes were level with his six year old daughter's, which changed from blue to green and most of the time settled on a light gray, the color of sea foam. "Promise me that you won't ever go into the forest by yourself. Always bring a buddy, so if you get hurt, they can go get help."_

She settled down on a flat rock that sat on a narrow grassy patch between the highway leading into Roanoke and the barbed wire fence that kept people out of the forest. She turned to face the green wild land, laughing at her childish fears and mannerisms as she stared into the dense blackness of the woods before her. Why she kept that promise, especially now, was beyond her. But she did, for reasons even she wasn't capable of understanding just yet, and in a way she was okay with it. She merely took a deep breath and willed her tired muscles to gather the strength to carry her back to the warehouse again—no matter how many months she stayed there, it would never be _home_—closing her eyes as her long blonde hair fluttered faintly in the warm breeze. The day's heat was approaching, something that would make the trek back even less enjoyable, but she stayed in her little spot, listening to the sounds of the forest and trying to determine if she did, in fact, hear the sound of water rushing somewhere far off. She slowly gave herself over to her senses, allowing her mind to wander, something she had done often in the past, but she now felt as though she couldn't trust her psyche. When left to its own devices, one could never tell what might happen. It was kind to her now, gentle and dormant, the only thought that passed through her mind before she rose and jogged back the other way was simple and, in some ways, horribly irrelevant. Leslie found herself wondering if, during her absence, her father had at last succeeded in convincing her mother to let him buy that house in the country that he had always talked about owning, someday.

**

* * *

Author's Notes: **In case anyone is wondering, Brownies is what people (or, rather, girls) are a part of before they graduate to Girl Scouts. It's Cub Scouts for girls, basically. On a completely unrelated note—as I've been rereading my chapters on fanfiction, I've noticed that words are being deleted at random. I go look at the document again through both fanfiction and my computer, but all the words are still there. If that happens any time in the future, I apologize for the bizarre error. That being said, I hope you enjoyed, and please review!


	7. Nothing to Do

**Disclaimer: **All recognizable characters and settings are the property of the Paterson family and their official affiliates. Any unrecognizable characters or settings are, in fact, mine; and come from my own imagination. I suppose that means that I own everything previously unrecognizable.

* * *

**Long Way Down**

**Chapter Six:**

**Nothing to Do

* * *

**

She had traveled a good three miles that morning; the run from the warehouse to the property line of the woods was primarily straight and easy, if one took side streets or jogged along highways that were rarely used. The area of Roanoke that she had resided in for the last half of a year wasn't _bad_, necessarily; it was only dangerous if you didn't belong there. Most people in Virginia were aware that Roanoke didn't possess the gang equivalent of Los Angeles or New York, but they knew that they—the gangs—still existed, and for that reason they chose to avoid certain areas of the city like it was inhabited by death, which, in their minds, it probably was. The thought of people _afraid _of most of the kids in those parts of the city always made her want to laugh. It was true that there were legitimate evils lurking, but that was the case everywhere. Most of it was just a cover; if people had no desire to see them, they would never find them, which was what just about everyone—including her—wanted.

About three blocks from the warehouse she slowed to a jog, focusing on breathing deeply through her nose and choosing to ignore the shoddy storefronts she was passing, most of them abandoned, like their warehouse was.

"Hey Bookworm," A masculine voice, rich and almost indiscernible with inner city colloquial speech, called in her direction. She turned her head towards the sound but never stopped moving—basic survival. She realized that she was passing the Marshall Deli, a square, squat building comprised entirely of stucco and a few panes of glass. The faded, dirty, yellow and white striped awning was sagging with age, the window in the front door looked like someone had punched—or shot—right through it, leaving a decent sized hole with splintery edges right in the middle of it. The cracked shards of glass caught the sunlight and sent facets of rainbow colored glow all over the sidewalk. The deli had been abandoned for several years, like most of the surrounding buildings, but a small family of siblings and cousins had taken to inhabiting it and the one room apartment on the second floor. Sometimes, when it was decided that the entire group, even Alexandra, would go onto a raid in the city, they would stop at the deli both before and after the excursion to make deals with the eldest brother, Gregg, who was almost twenty. It was Janice who headed most of the bartering, and she most often called on Carla, Scott and Gary to back her up. During this time Madison would usually sit on a stool behind the dusty front counter, eyes squinted, mouth pinched, nose ever so slightly up in the air, looking disgusted with it all. Alexandra would take to cowering in some empty corner, and Leslie, feeling sorry for the little girl, would stand beside her. That was how she came to know the boy who was now calling a greeting to her, Marco. Marco was fifteen, only one year younger than she was, and had come with the four original siblings before their eight cousins arrived some months later. He had explained that he, Gregg, and their sisters, Joana, now eighteen, and Kyla, fourteen, had decided to run away when their parents died in a car accident and they had been sent to live with their grandmother in Langley, who was cold, bitter, needy and cruel. Marco had once told her that his grandma burned him with her curling iron for not cleaning his room when she told him to, and that the gravity of his burns was what finally pushed Gregg and Joana to decide that they were all going to run away, rather than risk being split up by child protective services, since Gregg and Jo were, at the time, too old to be safely guaranteed the ability to stay with him and Kyla. Leslie hadn't believed him at first; his eyes were always lit like he was laughing at some inside joke, his dark brown face never seemed to lose its innocent baby fat, even now, as he sat hidden inside the hood of an oversized black sweatshirt and jutted his chin in her direction from behind the gaping hole in the front window. She remembered back to the first time she had accompanied the other kids to the deli for their haggle session, when he had seen Alexandra hiding behind her and had come over to try to make the trembling redhead feel less afraid. He had told the two of them that story, and neither girl had fully believed him. It wasn't until he had pushed up the sleeve of his hoodie and showed off the four gruesome, dark scars that snaked their way around his left forearm that both of them took his tale as the truth. Alexandra had threaded her fingers nervously through Leslie's belt loop while Marco snickered good naturedly. She waved to him with a cheeky grin, and dismissed the feeling of guilt she felt at not telling him her name. Sure, she had chosen to keep her middle name as well as her surname from the other kids at the warehouse, even Alexandra, but she had never kept her Christian name from anyone, ever. It wasn't as though she had done it deliberately, he had never really asked. She might have considered it odd, were she not so secretly frightened by the grungy, gray-green ambiance of Marshall's, but instead she felt incredibly grateful when he caught sight of the paperback copy of _Jane Eyre _that her elbow was pinning against her ribs and asked what it was about. She had proceeded to babble a very detailed synopsis about the story, blurting out the biggest, most European words that popped into her head, and he listened but chuckled all the while. For the rest of the day he called her Jane Eyre, much to the confusion of the other warehouse kids, but she just laughed with him, pleased to have found someone who didn't _completely _terrify or despise her. The next time she saw him—one month later—he had shortened it to just Jane, but did ask what her actual name was. He saw her freeze, and with an almost sympathetic sigh he asked her about _Wuthering Heights_, which had taken the place of the Charlotte Bronte's novel under her arm. When she was done explaining he inquired if her name was Catherine, which made her relax and answer with a smiling no. After that he gave up on guessing her name and decided to call her Bookworm, since she seemed to be in possession of a new volume every time they met. It stuck, though the slight, nagging feeling of culpability never fully dissipated. She did like Marco, but whether or not she could trust him with something even as simple as her name—which she had learned was actually very sacred and valuable indeed—was still debatable, even after "knowing" him for six months. Though his caramel eyes often shined with good humor, there was a two dimensional quality to them that made her question how strong and unwavering his character really was, and it saddened her. As her pace grew to a sprint and the deli's front disappeared behind her, the other stores quickly following suit, she wondered if it was a ludicrous wish to want to be able to trust someone with not only her forename, but everything else too.

* * *

Before they left the restaurant, May Belle announced that she needed to use the bathroom again. She had leapt up from the booth and darted down the hallway once more, leaving Jess to say their goodbyes to both Miriam and Rosalind. It had been awkward for him, to say the least, especially when both women asked how their meal had been multiple times—each time he replied with an overly enthusiastic "delicious"—and then when they offered their almost tearful condolences regarding great-aunt Adelaide's supposedly sudden death and were trying, apparently, to compensate for his grief by shoving doggie bags full of mystery food into his hands, he found that he almost couldn't take it. He'd never been a good liar, ever, even when dealing with little things, like when he had tried to blame a very young May Belle for spilling his apple juice when it had really been him all along. Lying about his entire _life_, or most of it, in addition to lying about the state of his family, had almost made him vomit. Bile actually pooled behind his closed lips, rolling across his tongue and settling in the hollows of his cheeks. He had forced himself to keep smiling and then, as cleanly as he could, excused himself to go outside, which he did after both of the females had given him one final pat of sympathy and another goodbye. He had kept up the happy façade until he was past the almost solid pane of windows on the front of the building, and then gladly disappeared around the darkened corner, into the alley beside the service entrance and spat all the bitter-tasting stomach acid into the rain gutter. His mouth tasted positively awful; sour and salty and ever so slightly sweet, though that may have been leftover from the maple syrup that had coated his small stack of pancakes. He yearned to brush his teeth, but going back into Libby's simply to use the bathroom seemed almost cruel for some reason he didn't fully understand. So he resigned himself to spitting one last time and then walking back to his pickup to stick the doggie bags inside of the cab. He had two in each hand, but hadn't looked in either, though he could clearly pick out the odors of bacon and Thousand Island dressing wafting from each. He yanked open the driver's side door and tossed both of the bags on the floor carefully, in order to keep them out of the sun. Slamming the door behind him with a little bit more force than probably necessary, he wandered back onto the front curb to wait, somewhat impatiently, for May Belle.

As he stood on the curb with his back to the restaurant's front and the already uncomfortably warm morning breeze wafted across his visage, his nose caught the scent of smoke somewhere far off, carrying over the dirty blacktop and the smell of gasoline from the Mobil station a few blocks ahead to reach his nostrils. He realized, with a small start, that he felt like he should be smoking a cigarette. He had never had the desire to smoke in his life, the constant reminders that his mother had hammered in his head since his eleventh birthday had killed any desire he may have secretly harbored. _It's an expensive, gross, and eventually deadly habit_. She had always told him this, and her reasoning had eventually consumed his mind. However, as he stood looking out at the grungy concrete towers on the outskirts of Virginia that would no doubt lead him into the heart of the inner city should he choose to follow them, he felt as though he was disobeying a social expectation by not holding a small white paper roll to his lips and taking a long drag of the smoke and ashes.

As another breeze that was slightly stronger, hotter and smellier than the preceding one blew over him, he decided to wait in the truck with the sacks of mystery food until May Belle decided to come out. He sprinted over to the driver's side in two or three paces and opened the squeaky door with one great, strong thrust of his arm, gritting his teeth in pain as the old spring recoiled on its own and sent the mass of metal flying into his ankle as he hoisted himself up inside of the cab. He rolled down his window with the manual crank—the only legitimate downside of his rather old vehicle that he actually allowed himself to acknowledge; another one of his mother's ridiculous sayings, "_don't look a gift horse in the mouth_", prevented him, unconsciously, from looking for more imperfections—while digging into his pocket for the key ring. While he certainly wasn't crazy about the idea of wasting valuable and incredibly expensive gas on something like air conditioning, it was rather uncomfortable inside the car as the potent rays of the sun streamed through the streaky glass of his windshield and blinded him momentarily. Plus, whatever was inside of those doggie bags smelled just a bit _too _good to die a slow death via heat.

Freeing the key from the confines of his pants at last, Jess eagerly stuck it into the ignition and turned it, squinting his eyes shut automatically in anticipation of the hot air that his old air conditioner would spew into his face while he waited for it to warm up slash cool down. To his surprise, no warm air came. It took him about five more seconds to realize that there was _no air_, period. He looked down, confused, at the controls beneath the dusty radio built in just below the dash and was able to discern, despite the eroding letters, that the switches were set to _Max A/C_ and _High_. About two more seconds passed before he realized that the actual car itself wasn't making any noise whatsoever. He turned the key again. Nothing. Trying to dismiss the feeling of panic building up in his chest, he removed the key from the ignition, wiped it on his shirt, and tried for the third time. The stretch of highway before him, bare except for the occasional scrap of debris that rolled across in the breeze, held more sound than his diesel engine.

He hopped out of the cab, hands shaking. This _couldn't _be happening. Not today, not now, not here. There was just no way this could be happening to him, to May Belle…to them. _It wasn't happening_. Positive thinking would help, surely. Wouldn't it? He found himself questioning his mental stability as he walked over to the hood.

He felt no scorching heat as he laid his hand on the hood, but that didn't stop gallons of smoke from billowing out, making him cough and sputter and gag as his eyes began to water.

"Well," He managed to growl to himself between wheezes, "_Dammit_. Dammit _all_."

* * *

By the time she arrived at the warehouse, Leslie was covered by a light sheen of sweat and her breathing was mildly labored. A glass of room temperature water and a brief, lukewarm shower before settling down in her room with a book sounded like heaven to her. Managing to do _all _of it, completely uninterrupted, would be an absolute miracle. And absolute miracles weren't easy to come by. And judging from the din she could already hear before entering the building, peace and solitude was not on the agenda for today. Sighing, she shoved open the thick metal door with her shoulder and listened, not expecting a greeting of any kind. She didn't receive one, but she did behold a sight she most certainly hadn't been expecting.

Since the upper floor of the warehouse had a bizarre layout and minimal space, those quarters were used only for the seven to nine hours of the night in which they all slept, and even then it wasn't particularly comfortable. For that reason the lower floor was used for nearly everything; though the cavernous room had no dividing walls of any kind, the use of different kinds of furniture helped segregate the areas. In general it was just like a giant living room with a "kitchen" of sorts, which was several folding tables and chairs, ice chests, a mini fridge and a microwave. The rest of the grand room was dominated with chairs and couches, cots, lamps, radios, even a few TVs and an ancient desktop computer that no one ever used, which sat next to the lone bookcase, a short, squat little cabinet that was falling apart and filled primarily with CDs, magazines and the few volumes that both Leslie and Madison had brought with them when they ran away. Leslie actually had about a dozen more paperbacks hidden upstairs in her room, odd little novels or factual books that she usually swiped from yard sales or thrift shops, though sometimes she did resort to the used section of independently owned stores or the occasional library book. She didn't really understand why she chose to keep the books away from the others, there was one or two that Alexandra would surely enjoy, and she hated the idea of denying the little girl the pleasure of reading. Maybe she wanted to keep the print away from Madison's cold eyes, which drank up the words for all the wrong reasons. Or, most likely, she liked the idea of knowing that she had one thing that was all her own. Part of her understood that it was a silly notion; she was all but invisible here, no one would pay attention to something as trivial as the book she chose to read during the evening. The couches and chairs were spread out on the lower floor so that everyone could technically be in the same room without ever really seeing one another. That was how it worked _most _of the time, anyway. That was why she was legitimately shocked to see all of the girls—Janice, Carla, Madison and Alexandra—standing relatively close together, while Gary and Scott were nowhere to be seen. From the looks of it, however, they were fighting, not truly attempting to become friends. When Leslie arrived, Carla was screaming something at Janice, who was standing as a human barrier between the irate brunette and a positively terrified looking Alexandra, who was silent. Madison, although not taking an active role in the disagreement, apparently found it—slightly—more interesting than the book she was reading. The paperback lay, ignored, on her knee as she lounged on one of the faded loveseats near where the action was taking place, watching with a semi-bored expression in her eye, as if nothing in life would ever excite her again. At present, however, Leslie was not interested in Madison's unrelenting negativity, but instead in the emotional and possibly physical well-being of the redhead. She approached the scene quietly, never noticed, and tried to understand what the whole mess was about.

"I _told_ the little brat it was _my _muffin!" Carla hollered.

"Did not," Alexandra surely meant this to be a rebuttal, but her voice was so weak and terrified that it came out more like a squeal.

"Liar!" The older girl apparently tried to lunge at her, because Alexandra shrank backwards, but she also found her voice.

"I am _not _a liar! The muffin didn't have your name on it, how was I supposed to know it was yours?"

Janice took the opportunity to speak for her friend, turning away from Carla and whirling on the younger girl. "_Because_, you little idiot." She snarled, her tone making Alexandra flinch as though she had been slapped. "What kind of muffin _was_ it?"

"Uh…"

"_Well_?"

"Um…blueberry pecan, I t-think…"

"Okay. Was it _good_?"

Alexandra went mute. Janice; angered by her lack of compliance, got down on her knees in front of her and shook her shoulders until her hair flopped all around her face. "_Was it good_?"

"K-k-kind of…it w-was okay, I g-guess…"

Here Janice cocked a single sandy eyebrow, a silent command to explain.

"It was dry," Alexandra had ceased stuttering, but her voice was barely a whisper. "Kinda stale, I suppose…"

"That doesn't matter," Janice's voice was even too, but that made it all the more petrifying. "Because, as a general rule, blueberry pecan muffins taste good. And if food tastes _good_, it's automatically left to us upperclassmen, unless otherwise specified. _Especially _if it's close to a raid, and there's _almost no food here_!" She shook the little girl once more for emphasis and then stood up, looking at Carla with a smug expression, as if to say: _we've scared her enough, I think_.

The gangly brunette was not fully satisfied, but apparently—somewhat—sated, because she didn't attempt to attack Alexandra anymore. She gave her a withering look and stated menacingly, "Don't think I'm done with you just yet, shrimp. That'd be _really _stupid. In fact, you've just lucky that Fulcher and Hoager should be in tonight with the entirety of this month's haul, or there'd be _hell_ to pay. And don't think I'm not going to remember this, either."

Alexandra was beginning to quiver again, and Leslie's temper flared.

"I don't see why you're berating the poor girl, ladies," She spoke sharper than she had intended to, surprising everyone in the room, who she guessed hadn't even been aware of her presence up until that very second. "Didn't you hear her? The muffin was _bad_. Dry, unappealing, probably bitter in taste. Overall, a very unfortunate snack that most people—sane people—would not consume by choice if they knew what was coming before they took the first bite. Why, you should _thank _her, I believe. She saved you an unpleasant experience; nay, not only did she save you, but she took it upon herself so others would not have to suffer it. If only…" Here she chose to pause and sigh dramatically, casting her eyes down momentarily to the floor, well aware that both Janice and Carla—her intended targets—were glaring holes into the side of her head. She fought the beginnings of a triumphant smirk and continued with an innocent, almost somber, but eloquent strength that held just the right air of sarcasm and a politely contained distain that would make any human being in their right mind tremble with shame and chagrin. "_If only _the same could be said for people. Wouldn't that be just _wonderful_, ladies?" She looked them directly in the eye and let the anger loose. "Wouldn't it be nice to just know, when someone like Alexandra here, someone brave and strong and good and sweet, waltzes into your life, so you may reward them, thank them for being who they are. And as for the stale blueberry pecan muffins…" She shot Carla a steely glare, "Toss them directly into the bottom of figurative dumpster of society where they rightly belong, and perhaps they will dig through the rotting goo of garbage and discover a backbone, so that maybe, should they be dense enough to try to walk over a good person for a second time, they might not have to run and cower behind a more frightening friend to gain their powers of intimidation."

If it was physically possible for fire to shoot out of her nose, Carla would've burned all the hair off of the back of Janice's head. She started forward toward the lithe blonde with a low, menacing growl, but Leslie, far more agile than her adversary, merely leaped back a few inches and laughed.

"What are you giggling at, _freak_?" Her slightly almond eyes narrowed even more as she attempted to spit in the direction of the girl who had been brave—and possibly stupid—enough to give her a taste of her own medicine.

Leslie's face was calm and slightly bemused as she crossed her arms over her chest and arched a dark blonde brow mockingly. "You mean besides your terrible aim when it comes to spitting in the faces of your opponents?"

"Look here, beanpole," Janice once again cut into the conversation. "You don't _have_ to stay here…"

"I'm well aware that my rights as an American citizen give me the ability to enter and exit various premises as I wish, provided I am the right age as specified by federal law, thank you, Janice." Leslie interrupted. "And I'm also aware that the Bill of Rights guarantees me freedom of speech. Violent assault on your part because I choose to exercise it, however, is not very easily pardoned. Or so I've been told, anyway."

Janice's green eyes narrowed into slits as she stared into the calm blue ones of her opponent. "I'd watch how brave you are, beanpole. You think you're so clever, don't ya? Not telling us your last name, where you're from, why you're here. You think if you remain smart and organized, you'll be able to disappear whenever the hell you wanna and we just won't care. Well, let me tell you something, _genius_. We _will_ care. We'll care more about you disappearing than anybody else. Not because we like you, princess, far from it. As I said, you don't _have_ to stay here, and we certainly didn't _want _you. The more of us there are, the easier we'll become to find, even you must understand that concept. But, unfortunately, we need you, to some extent. You're a ghost—you hide better than anybody else here does. I'm not going to lie, that's valuable when you live like we do. But you're weird, beanpole. And here, _weird_ is dangerous. You're valuable, sure, but not so valuable that we're going to risk our skins, sanity and independence for somebody who was odd enough to _look _for us. If you make too many mistakes, _we'll_ make you disappear, ghost girl. And no one will find you once that happens. I'll make sure of it if it's the last thing I do. I'm giving you a fair warning here, beanpole. _Watch yourself_."

With one final glare in Leslie's direction Janice stalked away into one far corner, Carla following close behind. Alexandra gave the blonde girl one long look that seemed to bear a cross between fear and admiration before turning and running up the stairs to the second level. Madison, obviously annoyed that her source of entertainment was gone, sighed and returned, half-heartedly, to her book. As for Leslie, she walked towards the bathroom, for the shower she had wanted to take since her arrival.

She shut the heavy metal door tight behind her and locked it, flipping the switch for the single light that was built into the ceiling. She quickly shed her perspiration damp clothes and tossed them into a corner, leaning against the dingy pedestal sink as she ran her fingers through her hair and then turned to flip on the shower, which had been crafted by Scott and Gary and was similar in form and operation to the portable showers that people took when they went camping. While she waited for the water to warm she returned to her place by the sink, staring at her face in the mirror and reliving the confrontation in the front room moments before. She knew she had no real reason to feel afraid, but yet she sensed it there, breeding, deep inside of her. It wasn't as if Janice and Carla themselves scared her—while the former had brawn, her partner was weak, and she would easily be able to defeat both of them with proper intellectual strategizing. But what they had _said_ terrified her, on an extremely deep level that surprised even her. She was a ghost girl, like they had called her. What if she became so good at vanishing that she forgot how to find herself again? What if she was never found; never looked for, even? Had everything that happened that night, all the words she had said in exhaustion and hurt and anger, really been thought to be fact? Had all of her lies been taken as the truth? Was she a lost cause?

She stepped under the pulsating jets of water and drew the shabby curtain, allowing the clear liquid to scorch every inch of her skin. She titled her head back, closed her eyes and opened her mouth, allowing her face to drown. She thought of Alexandra's tortured little face, and of her own dead eyes as she stared herself down in the mirror, and felt a tear mix with the drops from the showerhead that ran down her face. She wanted desperately to do something, to make _everything _right again. The lone tear that slid down her cheek was not of sadness or even guilt, but rather an odd kind of discouragement. Because she knew, deep down, that at present, no matter how much she longed or hoped or tried, there really wasn't anything at all to do.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **This chapter didn't cover as much ground as I had originally planned, but it seemed like this was the appropriate place for the narrative tone to halt. Plus, I realize that I haven't updated this story in nearly a month, and I want to keep on track with updating this piece with a good tempo so that everyone, me included, doesn't lose interest. :) I hope you all enjoyed; I know that _I'm _having a blast writing this story, but I want to make sure I'm taking you all on the ride as well. Please drop a review, your feedback is appreciated more than you know.


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